The Pale Rider
by batsojopo
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?
1. Scene 1

This will eventually be a crossover. For now I will file it under the Foyle's War category.

 _ **The Pale Rider**_

Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _May 1942_

This was not what Detective Chief Superintendent Christopher Foyle of the Hastings Constabulary was wishing for on a mild late spring day. He stood there amongst the rocks, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, and looking at what was left of a woman laying before him while ignoring all the moment around him. The waves of coming off the Channel always had that soothing quality that he was in desperate need of at this moment.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye, forcing him to look up to see what it was. From there his eyes traveled to the blue water and the war that was raging just beyond the horizon. Everything seemed so calm, as if it were a relaxing spring day. Yet it was deceiving at the same time. He watched the tide start its slow and laborious return. At the moment the sand was still in sight. In a few short hours that part of the beach would be covered by the Channel. Turning his attention back to the body, he knelt down to get a better look.

A shadow appeared then there was a flash with a pop. The sound startled Foyle for a moment, but he refused to let it show. Reaching out, he gently turned the woman's face, surprised that rigor had already passed. Holes where her eyes once rested, and stumps for ears and nose gave the face a macabre look. Further down was what looked like bruises on her neck. The only thing that showed any idea of who she could have been was the rather expensive looking bracelet on her wrist. Why it was still there he had no idea. If she was killed on land by some reprobate, that would have been the first to go, pawned if he wasn't mistaken.

Foyle looked up again to watch his sergeant, Paul Milner talking with several fishermen. At first he hoped that one could be a witness, but in the end figured that they were most likely the ones that had spotted the body. The tall thin man turned towards him and frowned while shaking his head.

"Mr. Foyle?"

He turned to see who it was that was calling him. A young woman with strawberry blonde hair and wearing a drab colored uniform approached. Samantha Stewart held her arms outstretched to keep her balance as she hurried across the rocky beach. She stopped just short of the body, trying to catch her breath.

"What is it Sam?" He stood and rubbed the back of his neck. This wasn't the first time he didn't want her in the middle of a murder investigation, and he certainly knew it wouldn't be the last. Even he was having a bit of difficulty dealing with this particular wanton disregard of life. Thankfully the woman's face was facing away from her.

Sam looked down to the body and grimaced. She seemed to swallow hard before gathering her wits. "Do you know who she is?"

"No." Why he was humoring her, he had no idea. "Why?"

"I think I might have found something up there." Sam pointed towards an overhang a short distance above the beach. A short distance from that point was one of the many anti-aircraft gun placements.

"Oh?" Maybe this was why he let her constantly pester him with questions. He once again wished she was a man so he could hire her outright. But he couldn't. Sometimes she was better at finding things than some of his long time uniformed constables under his command.

Leaving the body for the time being, they worked their way up to the embankment and to the area Sam was now pointing towards. When they stopped he looked down to the ground and the three tire tracks in the dirt. All that told him was that a Morgan had been parked there recently. He filed that bit of information away for future reference.

The tracks were not what Sam was looking at. Stuffed under a ledge was a small bag. From his position it looked like a lady's handbag. She knelt down to reach for it.

"Don't touch that."

She jumped back and her feet came out from under her, making her sprawl in the half grass half gravel. Foyle came over and helped Sam to her feet. She brushed the gravel from her skirt, "Sorry, sir." She paused, "Fingerprints?"

"There could be. Need to make sure" He knelt down, frowning at hearing his knees pop, and examined the bag. Rising back to his feet he whistled to get his men's attention and then called for the photographer.

As soon as the pictures were taken, Foyle pulled out a pen and with that he pulled the bag from under the ledge by what looked like a strap. He was right. It had been a handbag at some point earlier. While using his handkerchief he opened the bag to reveal that there were items inside it. The ever present ration card was at the top, so it hadn't been lost all that long ago. Still using the pen he found a modern style pocketbook. The rest of the items looked like papers of various sorts. Standing up, he set it on the ledge and began going through its contents, hoping there would be some type of identification within it.

"Do you think it'll help?"

Christopher glanced out of the corner of his eye only to see Sam's imploring look. He gave her a bit of a smile. "Not sure yet."

A card fluttered to the ground.

"What's this?" Sam knelt down and picked it up. "It looks to be some type of business card." She turned it over, looking at both sides, and shrugged as she handed it over.

"More like a Victorian style calling card." He hadn't seen one of these in a very long time. Christopher frowned as he examined it. The name printed on it was unfamiliar to him. Whoever it was, was either very wealthy or very high up in the ranks of the aristocracy. Keeping it in hand, he continued to rummage around in the bag until he found the identification card. "Margaret Woollenhouse."

"Is that her?"

"Maybe."

Christopher looked back down to the beach. The woman's body was already covered and was in the process of being carried away to the coroner's for the autopsy and upcoming inquest. "Come on," he said as he picked up the bag and started back down to Milner. The sergeant was still shaking his head.

"Still haven't found anything of note?" he asked the younger man as he approached.

"Not yet, sir." Paul frowned. "There doesn't seem to be any witnesses at all. It looks as if she was killed on one of the boats then dumped overboard."

"Most likely." Foyle pressed his lips together trying to think of the best action to take. He looked back down to the handbag then handed it over with all its contents. "There's a woman's ID along with a ration card inside. See what you can find out about her and if it's possibly connected with our body."

"Yes, sir." Paul seemed uneasy as he opened the small bag and retrieved the booklet.

Christopher turned and headed back up to the street. "And check to see if there are any reports on any missing women," he threw over his shoulder.

He could hear Sam hurrying after him. She only caught up when they reached the edge of the beach. "I think they're connected."

Christopher didn't even bother to look at Sam at first. "And why's that?"

"Well," she smiled with growing confidence. "It was found in the same general area. I know if I lost my purse, I'd be searching everywhere for it and wouldn't give up until I found it."

Christopher stopped and turned towards her while frowning.

"I mean it is obvious, isn't it?" Her confidence seemed to fade the longer he remained silent.

He finally gave her a small grin, "Then let's see if you're right." His words earned him her own brilliant smile in return. It was so easy to make her happy.

TBC...


	2. Scene 2

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 2  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

This is written in such a way so you do not need to know the "other" fandom.

 _Scene 2_

Foyle sat in his office looking over the latest of the never ending petty crime reports when word finally came in from Bexhill of a possible missing woman. He shook his head. Either the woman was missing or not. Looking up to the clock on the wall he debated on whether or not to send Milner over, but at the last minute changed his mind. It was early enough in the day for him to pop on ovr and then get back in time for the inquest on the unidentified body from several days earlier.

Fifteen minutes later he found himself in the front passenger seat of the Wolseley, and leaning against both the door and the seat. It gave him a clear view of Sam's profile while also watching as she eased the car out onto the coastal road that led west out of Hastings.

The blue skies that had graced them for the last few days had changed to a dull gray with overhanging clouds, and the wind coming off the Channel whipped up the waves to form white caps. If the sun didn't break through the clouds, the day would end up being much cooler than predicted. The weather seemed to match the mood of the whole country. At least the Americans were here now. There was no telling how much longer they could have been able to hold out against Hitler. It made for a very lonly position, especially for a policeman.

It took less than an hour to reach the Bexhill Police Station. "Mr. Foyle, how long do you think this will take?"

Sam's question wasn't unexpected. "I'm not sure." He hoped it wouldn't take that long.

Sam pulled the Wolseley into the car park behind the building alongside several other police vehicles instead of taking up space in front of the building. She turned off the engine and followed him into the building.

They had been to this particular station one or two times before, so the uniformed constables on duty weren't all that surprised at seeing Sam. Christopher paused before coming up to the window. He wasn't sure who he needed to speak with. Most likely it would be the one that knew about the missing woman, whomever he would be.

The ever present desk sergeant was there looking over current paperwork. He looked up, and straightened a bit before coming to the window. "Mr. Foyle, how may I help you?"

Christopher frowned slightly at the taller man. "Yes, Sergeant. I believe you have a report of a possible missing woman."

The constable cocked his head for a moment, confusing reigning supreme for a few seconds before he seemed to remember. "Yes, sir. Her name is Margaret Woollenhouse. Have you found her?"

"Possibly."

The constable furrowed his brow.

"There's not much of a description I can give you, since she was in the water for some time. Do you have any information about her, a photograph maybe?"

"I think we have a photograph. Several housewives have been reporting on what they see as suspicious activities lately." He paused as if remembering something, "Yes, we do have a photograph of her shortly before she left town." The constable turned, "Hey Jonesey, can you get that photograph of Miss Woollenhouse?"

The constable in question soon returned with a black and white photograph. The sergeant handed it over. Christopher looked at the woman wearing a similar looking dress and handbag to the one on the beach. He had no idea if it was the same woman or not. What did catch his attention was the bracelet on her wrist and purse. "How long as she been missing?" He looked up to see the constable as he mentally calculated something.

"Sir, we think she's been missing at least a week, maybe more."

Foyle nodded. _A week? Interesting._ "Oh? Why are you unsure?"

The constable's expression was a surprise. He looked full of anger or something. Distaste maybe? "She hasn't been here for very long, and never invites anyone over. Some of her neighbors have reported that it looks like she meets up with some high ranked title, and they head off somewhere. No one seems to know where they go. If that's the case, I suspect she's his floozy."

Christopher handed the photograph back to the constable. "A woman in a similar dress and bracelet washed up on the beach over in Hastings overnight."

This time the constable's eyebrows raised. "Dead?"

 _Really?_ Foyle had a difficult time not keeping his eyes from rolling. "Of course, she's dead." His eyes wandered around the room until he reached the clock on the wall, surprised that he was already wishing it was time for him to leave, then back to the officer. "I want her address. As soon as the inquest is finished, I will come back and search her home."

The constable frowned. "We can do that for you, sir."

 _I bet you would_. "If you do, wait until I've come back. It might be a few days at the latest. Don't let anyone inside her house."

The constable tapped the edge of the photograph against the desk. "Yes, sir."

 _I need that photograph._ "I've changed my mind. I want a copy of that photograph, or if you have another that would work."

"Sir, you can have this one. We've got more." The constable handed the photograph back over.

Foyle picked up his hat and photograph and turned towards the door. "Come Sam."

She hurried after him, both of them having grown adept at ignoring the looks they received on a daily basis.

On the way back to Hastings, he could see her looking at him out of the corner of her eye as she shifted through the gears. "So, Mr. Foyle, it is Margaret Woollenhouse."

"Maybe. The body hasn't been identified yet. Hopefully this will shed some light on it," he raised up the photograph, "and give the coroner the means of identifying the victim."

"And then we get to search-"

"Not so fast, Sam." Christopher shook his head. "Miss Woollenhouse lives, or lived, in Bexhill. Being a different jurisdiction, I might not be able to let you in to help with the search."

She frowned and sighed as she leaned forward, studying the road intently.

TBC...


	3. Scene 3

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 3  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene three_

Because of the picture Foyle brought back from Bexhill, the coroner decided on waiting until it was known whether or not the victim was actually Margaret Woollenhouse. The woman's cause of death would be revealed at the inquest, though Christopher had a pretty good idea how she died. He looked through his office door and down the hall that led to the common area in the station. Sam was seated on one of the benches with a book in hand. He jumped when the telephone rang.

"Foyle," he answered. "Yes...oh? I see. Have you notified the coroner yet? Good...Thank you." He placed the receiver back on the hook, disconnecting the call. Sam would be pleased. He let a smile cross his face before turning back to the never ending paperwork. The official inquest would most likely be the next day.

Changing his mind he picked up the telephone again and called over to Bexhill. This time he was able to speak to the senior detective personally. Christopher felt that it was common courtesy to let them know they were instrumental in identifying the body. He also asked if they could hold off on searching through Miss Woollenhouse's home until he was able to come back. The detective agreed, which relieved him to no end. Now he would have the time to dig into the victim's past and hopefully find the reason why she was murdered, since he wasn't all that interested in attending the inquest now.

Foyle leaned over and looked through the door once again and down the corridor. Sam hadn't moved at all. Whatever the book was, she was completely engrossed in it. He watched as Milner came out of his office and stopped in front of her. They spoke for a few minutes then she rose to her feet, while glancing into his office. They're eyes met then she broke and went over to retrieve a key for one of the police cars. She was officially his driver, but because of Paul's leg, Christopher allowed her to drive the sergeant to his destinations if she had the time.

Rising from his seat, he left his office and went towards the small kitchen for some tea. With cup in hand, he left the room and glanced over to the bench again, this time noticing that she left her book on the seat. Stepping over, he looked down at it, wondering if he knew the author or the title. _The Fountain Pen Mystery._ He had never heard of that one before. Shrugging he went back to the never ending petty crime reports.

If Sam returned at a decent hour, she'd drive him home. If not, he would walk. The station wasn't that far from his home. He tapped the end of the pencil on the paper before him, trying to think what his next moves would be. He supposed he could attend the inquest, that way he would find out the official cause of death, although it seemed fairly obvious to him.

Yet, the next morning he found himself standing just outside the Hastings Court. He pressed his lips together as he looked around the corridor. The only other people who were there were the fishermen from several days ago along with several other men who seemed extremely important. They weren't from Hastings, that was sure or he would have recognized them. He had been a policeman here so long that he pretty much knew or knew the names of all the residents. Sometimes it made for interesting conversations, especially when Sam first arrived.

The door into the court room opened, and everyone gathered followed the bailiff into the room just beyond. Since Hastings wasn't all that large, His Majesty's Court mirrored the size of the town. The city wasn't even important enough to have their own Coroner's Court, so they had to use the regular court when it wasn't in session. There were maybe twenty-five seats available, including the jury box. Christopher found a seat near the back of the room, and Sam quickly followed suit, same book in hand from the day before. The moment they sat down, she opened it up and picked up where she left off. "Sam," he kept his voice low while shifting in his seat.

"Yes?" her voice distracted as she turned another page.

He frowned. "Why did you bring that? The coroner might ask you questions on finding the handbag."

"But I'm bored," it came out sounding similar to a whine, "and I want to know what happens next."

He gave her a long look then shook his head in resignation.

A man came through the side door. "All rise."

Foyle stood at the command. For a moment Sam seemed like she hadn't heard the call, but quickly put the book down and scrambled to her feet. From his view he thought she cringed in guilt before letting it disappear. They stood not because of the next man who came through the same door, but for the King. The newcomer, who was the coroner, wore neither robe nor wig.

"Pray be seated," the man stated just as he sat down. As soon as everyone was seated he continued, "We are gathered here to answer four questions. I will call each man or woman, if any, involved to see if I can deduce the answers to how and where the victim died. This is not a court where I will be judging whether there is guilt or innocence, that is not my intention. We are all on the same side."

The corner, who it turned out to be, looked down at his notes and seemed to scan through the writing. "Will Dr. Archer approach the bench?"

Everyone turned to look at the older man who stood to his feet and came forward. He took the oath and sat down in the witness box.

"You are a pathologist, Dr. Archer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Through your examination, have you come to any conclusion on how the victim was killed?"

Archer cleared his throat. "I believe it was murder, and this is why. While she had major had contusions and penetrating lacerations on her back and around to her front, those were not lethal. She had prominent ecchymoses in the skin of the neck with the bruising extending into the muscles of her neck. While the globes in her eyes were missing there were still petechiae on her eyelids and conjunctiva covering the inner lid. Further there was a fracture of the hyloid bone. She shows no evidence of breathing at the time she was placed into the water. All my findings point to strangulation as the cause of death."

At these words, the quiet of the court was broken by the rising murmurs of voices, which one clap of the gavel immediately silenced.

"Order." Once decorum was reestablished the coroner continued, "Now what about the identity of the victim?"

Dr. Archer glanced towards Foyle. "From the photograph DCS Foyle retrieved from the Bexhill Constabulary, along with modern technology, I was able to positively identify her as being Miss Margaret Woollenhouse of Bexhill."

Foyle nodded, not all that surprised at what he heard. The only thing different was the fact that she was dead by the time she was in the water.

The rest of the men that gave testimony didn't really add to what was already stated. In fact, there seemed to be no other information available on the woman or what really happened to her in the events that led up to her death.

Now coming out of the court house, Foyle shook his head. It felt like the whole time with the Coroner's Court was a waste of his time and energy, that very same time and energy he could have been using to search for the murderer.

"So she didn't drown?" Sam's question came out more like a statement rather than a question when they neared the station.

Christopher glanced towards his young driver. "Nope."

She sighed. "You know, I wish they could find fingerprints on her body."

"Sam," he stopped, forcing her to stop and look at him. "Even if we had that kind of technology, I don't think it would have worked."

"I still wish we could do that." She shrugged as they paused at the main doors to the station.

"Well, I don't think that will ever happen." He opened the door and stood to the side. Out of habit, he placed a hand on her lower back to steer her into the building before following.

She turned back to him with a smile that lit up her face. "So, when are we off to Bexhill?"

He gave her a smile that reached his light blue eyes while giving her an upside down smile. "Tomorrow morning."

TBC...


	4. Scene 4

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 4  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 4_

Christopher sat in the front seat with a letter in hand. It was one of the few times his son, Andrew, had actually written him. It both bothered and relieved him that his son was doing fine. At least, well it seemed as if the air raids had stopped. It had been some time since the last one, and sometimes he felt almost as if he didn't need to pull the blackout curtains in place at night.

"Is that from Andrew?"

He frowned. The last letter she had received from his son was what Major Kiefer called a "Dear Jane" letter. Of all the things, to call it off by letter, he thought, was the worst thing his son could have done. Yet at the same time he felt an odd sort of relief that she was free once again. He mentally shook himself. "Yes."

She nodded as she changed the gears. "Oh."

He put the letter in his lap. "Sam, I still think he should have apologized to you in person."

"No, no, no. Don't worry about it. I knew early on that it wouldn't work out." She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye before bringing her full attention back to the road. "He's all flash and no substance."

 _How true._ It still bothered him that he flirted, or maybe flitted was a better term, from one girl to the next.

"Where is he? Or can he even tell you?"

Christopher looked at the stamp on the envelope. "No word. Either he's in the same place or it's probably something he can't talk about." He looked over just in time to see her nodding.

"I'm just glad he's doing well, sir."

 _Trust Sam to think of everyone else first._ Christopher let a smile slide across his face before it disappeared. Just as they were pulling into the outskirts of Bexhill, he placed the letter back in its envelope and slid it into his inner suit pocket. The trip back to Hastings, he assumed, would give him time to think about how he would answer the letter, that is if he knew where to send it.

While their arrival at the local police station was without fanfare, he had anticipated that they would be waiting for him. Sam pulled the Wolseley up to the front of the building this time, assuming that it would be easier. "Stay here." Christopher nodded to her as he climbed out of the car and climbed the steps that led to the front entrance.

People were in the common area, but it wasn't completely crowded. Christopher stopped to look at the wall that was covered in local wanted posters. A single green flier that seemingly had nothing to do with the police stood out in stark contrast to the sea of drab grey wanted posters. He approached the wall, curious as to what this one said. _Freedom is in peril, defend it with all your might._ It was either a new propaganda poster or one he hadn't seen before. Then again, he might not have noticed it because of how busy he'd been lately.

"Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher turned around to see who called him. The man who approached was in full uniform. "Yes?" He easily recognized the man as the superintendent from his insignia on the man's collar.

"Sir. We've been waiting for you."

"Good." Christopher pointed over his shoulder towards the front door. "I'm out front."

"Sir, we'll come around and you can follow us to Miss Woollenhouse's home."

Bexhill wasn't all that large; actually, it was smaller than Hastings. They soon found themselves approaching of one of the homes in the older part of the town.

As they stood in front of the building, the police cars began lining the street. Across the lane, they could see the curtains twitch. Whomever it was, Christopher knew they'd have things to gossip about. The super searched around the potted plants beside the door for a possible key. Most people kept them there, which was something the police knew about as well. Finding what he was looking for, the uniformed officer unlocked the door and pushed it open.

The front hall was cluttered with various items one would find in a home. Turning into the lounge they stopped abruptly, making it difficult for the officers following to avoid running into them. The room was bare, not just empty, of furnishings, but stripped bare. It was as if no one lived there, yet the front hall gave the appearance that there was a resident.

"Did Miss Woollenhouse receive letters here?" Christopher took his hat off and turned around, taking in every aspect of the room.

"I don't know, sir. I'll have to question the postman about that."

"Do that." Christopher wandered deeper into the house, wondering if there would be anything of value. Why, he kept asking himself. Finding the stairs, he went up to the second floor, hoping there would be at least something of note.

The only piece of furniture in the house was a bed. There wasn't even a wardrobe.

"Sir?"

Christopher looked up from the bed and towards the opening of the door to the room. Sam was standing in the hall. "Yes?"

"This is just a front, isn't it?"

He frowned. "It would seem so."

She came in and sat on the bed. It made a crinkling sound. "What is that?" she asked as she stood up.

"I'm not sure. Get the super, would you Sam?" Christopher's full attention was on the bed now. The sound brought back vague memories of when he was a young child, yet that was straw, and not a paper sound. He knelt down and felt the cover, then stooped lower to look under at the springs.

"Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher turned his attention back to the door. "Yes," he pushed himself to his feet. "I believe there's something within the mattress."

"Let me do that, sir." The constable pulled out a pocket knife and opened it up. Leaning over he pressed down on the cover until he heard the crinkling sound. With movements as careful as a surgeon, he cut a slit in the cover wide enough to slide his hand in it. It didn't take long, and he pulled out what looked like several pieces of folded paper. He opened it and furrowed his brow. "What?"

"Let me see that," Christopher held his hand out. What he found written was not what he was expecting. It was some sort of code and he had no idea how to break it.

TBC...


	5. Scene 5

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 5  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _This is the shortest scene so far._

 _Scene 5_

Christopher shook his head. There was no telling how long they were in the house before they finally left. He rubbed his face which pushed his hat up almost to the back of his head. The actions were more out of frustration than anything else. Turning, he looked towards the superintendent. "Do you have any other information on Miss Woollenhouse?"

The uniformed officer shook his head. "Only what we've given you so far, sir. She kept to herself most of the time."

Christopher nodded then looked across the street to the other houses. The curtains weren't twitching anymore. He was of mind to actually go over and see what the women knew about Margaret.

"Hey you!"

Everyone turned to the call. One of the constables was a short way down the street and running after someone. Other members of the constabulary jumped into cars to add to the foot chase. Feeling the collective adrenaline, Christopher follow suit.

"Sir," Sam settled in behind the wheel, "I don't know the streets here. I don't think I can be of much help." She gave him what he interpreted as a rather hopeless look.

He watched as her brown eyes turn and focused on the houses across the street. "Do you think her neighbors might know something about her schedule?"

Christopher turned to look out the passenger side window. "Well, I wouldn't be surprised. But by the time I'm finished…." He shrugged. Foot chases as far as they went didn't last all that long, especially when being chased by a police car.

"Then maybe after that's over we can come back?" She started the engine and slid the gear into first.

 _I don't think I'd be able to stop you._ "Okay."

"And don't worry, I'll let you do all the talking." A wide grin split Sam's face as she nudged the car towards the local station.

When they reached the end of the block, another vehicle came up beside them. "We got 'em, sir," the uniformed constable reported with a grin.

 _That didn't take long._ Christopher leaned forward so he could look across Sam to the other vehicle, "We'll follow you."

"Aye, sir!" the man gave him a salute and continued on his way.

This time Sam parked behind the station. There was no telling how long the interview would take. "Will they let you be in there for the questioning?" Sam looked at him, her head cocked.

"Maybe." He looked over and couldn't help but notice she had that same book in hand.

She blushed. "Mr. Foyle, I don't know how long you'll be in there."

"Don't worry, it'll be fine."

Entering the building, they were escorted beyond the common area. Sam stopped at a bench and sighed as she sat down while Christopher continued on towards the Detective Superintendent's office where he sat in one of the available chairs. "Do we know who he is?"

"Not yet, sir. Bexhill, as you know, is even smaller than Hastings. I think I know everyone here personally. With you being a higher ranked detective if you wish I can step aside and let you conduct the interview."

"No," Christopher shook his head. "I think it would be better if you were to question him."

"Thank you, sir."

They rose to their feet and left the office and headed towards the gaol cells. They were soon joined by the superintendent who was now holding a file in hand.

"Sirs, we have his name."

"Who are we dealing with, Hutchins?"

John Hutchins opened the file and scanned through the notes. "A William Ericcson, sir. He's from the Shetland Islands." He then handed the file over.

"Good work."

The superintendent smiled and waited until they moved towards the interview room. Ericcson sat in a chair at the table. He jumped when the door slammed shut. "Well, Mr. Ericcson. I'm Superintendent Arthur Bletsoe, and I'm with the police here in Bexhill."

Foyle went over to one of the corners and leaned up against the wall, interested in seeing the coming events, whatever they might hold.

"And 'im?"

Bletsoe shook his head. "You needn't worry about him. I suspect you know why we brought you in for questioning?"

William's eyes widened then narrowed. Leaning back in his chair he folded his arms.

"My question for you Mr. Ericcson is why did you run from one of the constables? All he was going to do was to remind you that we were in the middle of an investigation and then send you on your way."

TBC...


	6. Scene 6

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 6  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 6_

Christopher sat in one of the chairs in Arthur's office. He wasn't all that surprised at Ericcson's lack of words. There were quite a few criminals that remained silent, even up to their execution.

The door opened all the way, and the detective came through with a folder in hand. "Sorry about the wait, sir."

"Not a problem." Christopher turned to watch the detective make his way to his desk. "Still nothing?"

"Nope, not even when Hutchins closed the cell door on him. He's going to be a hard nut to crack."

"Looks it."

Opening the folder, Bletsoe scanned through the documents. "Now this is interesting."

Oh? Christopher cocked his head. "What did your men dig up?"

He answered by handing the sheet over.

Christopher had to lean forward to grasp the paper. Settling back down in the chair, he glanced at the document. _Life assurance policy?_ "Is this genuine?"

"I would think so."

"Who would take an assurance policy out on Miss Woollenhouse?" Christopher handed the sheet back.

"That is something I am going to find out. It makes me wonder if it wasn't Ericcson who made it."

"Who's the beneficiary?"

Bletsoe mumbled his way through the document. "It looks like his name is Hamilton. Don't recognize it."

Christopher frowned. "Neither do I. But it also looks like a reason for her to be killed."

The inspector leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. "Insurance fraud. This is something I haven't come across yet. What about you, sir?"

Closing his eyes, Christopher had to concentrate for a few minutes. "One time shortly after the slump started."

"Desperate means for desperate times."

"I don't know if you were already a policeman by that time, but I thought I was very lucky to have this job when I did." Christopher shook his head.

Arthur nodded. "I would think it would. I hope this bloody war keeps us out of another one of those again."

Christopher rubbed his forehead. "If we survive it."

"Sir, don't be so pessimistic. Which reminds me, have you come across any Yanks yet?"

For once Christopher let his eyes roll. "Yes. It almost seems as if they're deliberately trying to keep me busy. Not only that, one of them is trying to take my driver away."

A smile spread across Bexhill detective's face that bordered on knowing. "Actually, I'm surprised that none of your constables have tried that yet."

"They know better. She's only there to drive me from place to place. It's her job."

This time his smiled broadened to triumphant. "So they see her as off limits."

Christopher shifted uneasily in his chair. The conversation was on the verge of being uncomfortable for him. _Is that why they watch her at a distance_ , he wondered. He pushed the unbidden thoughts from his mind. "We're not discussing my driver." And with that he closed the door to that particular conversation.

"Of course." Yet it seemed that the Bexhill detective wanted to get in at least one more jab. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together and let them rest on his desk. "Because Miss Woollenhouse's body was found in Hastings, if there is any more information I or my men come across we can—"

"Send it directly to me," Christopher interrupted with his answer. "I would like a copy of not only Miss Woollenhouse's file, but also the one you've compiled for William Ericcson."

Both men stood up and exited the office.

Arthur held up the folder. "Sir, I can have both sent over to you tomorrow."

"Good."

They found Sam leaning against the counter and talking to the desk sergeant.

"Sam?"

She jumped back a step and turned around, looking to see who called her. Realizing it was Foyle who called to her she straightened. "Sir?"

"Come on." He indicated the door with a hand.

"Back to Hastings?"

Once they were outside he answered her, "Back to Miss Woollenhouse's so I can talk to her neighbours."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, I say!"

Sam eventually eased the car to a stop opposite of Margaret's house. This was the one that Christopher saw most of the movement coming from.

"Do you want me to come in?"

Christopher looked over to her for a moment, debating on whether or not to let her come along. Eventually he nodded. "I'll let you know if I need your help." It felt odd saying that.

"Of course, sir. I'll sit in the corner with my book."

"No. Leave the book in the car."

Sam nodded and followed him up to the door of the house.

It opened soon after the first knock by an older woman. It was almost as if she was waiting for them. "Yes?"

"Ma'am," Christopher took his hat off. "My name is Foyle and I'm a police officer over in Hastings. I would like to ask you some questions about your neighbor, Miss Woollenhouse."

"Do come in, Mr. Foyle." The woman backed away giving them the room to enter the house. "Make yourselves comfortable while I make tea."

Christopher and Sam exchanged glances before finally sitting down. The woman eventually returned with a tea service. "I'm Victoria Smyth. Mum named me after our late Queen."

"Well, Mrs. Smyth," Christopher accepted the tea cup and saucer and let it rest on his leg. "What can you tell me about Miss Woollenhouse?"

"What are you wanting to know? I couldn't help but notice that young man running away. I'm not sure why he was doing that. You see," she leaned forward as if Foyle was one of her gossip friends, "He's been coming around her place quite a bit lately."

"Oh? Is this before Miss Woollenhouse disappeared?"

"That and earlier. I thought they were, you know, _shacking up_ ," her last words she spat out. "What will the young generation do next?" She shook her head. "They've no respect for authority or for common decency."

Christopher had a hard time not choking on the tea. "So the two have been seen together?"

She seemed to backtrack, "Well, I wouldn't say that outright. There's also someone else who comes by on occasion. I think he's one of those titled gents, you know always dressed to the nines and drives one of those odd three wheeled cars."

 _Three wheels?_ He nodded noncommittally. "Do you happen to have that man's name?"

Victoria gave him a thoughtful look. "I _think_ I heard her say the name Hamilton, but I'm not all that sure about it. I didn't think there's any of the nobility that has that name."

Christopher nodded absently. I don't recognize it. Though, it nagged him that he needed to do something. "Mrs. Smyth, when was the last time you saw Mr. Hamilton?"

"And that car?" She pursed her lips. "I would think it's been more than a week. They went out and never did return. In fact I don't remember seeing her after that time." Her hand went to her mouth. "Is she dead?"

Christopher gave her a kind look. "I'm afraid so, Mrs. Smyth."

Victoria shook her head. "Even though she seemed to run around with the wrong people, I wouldn't have wished her dead." She reached out a hand as if to touch him, but stopped just short. "You will find out who did this?"

"Of course I will," he nodded.

TBC...


	7. Scene 7

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 7  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 7_

Christopher found it almost impossible to trace Hamilton, if that even was his name, or even the possible Morgan he drove. When he pressed further, Mrs. Smyth couldn't even remember the color of the vehicle, only that it had three wheels.

He looked over Ericcson's file once again. It almost seemed too clean. If he were innocent, then why did he run? Why did he stay silent was the bigger question he wanted answered. Was he worried about something getting out? If so, what was he hiding?

There was a knock on his door. "Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher looked up to find Paul standing just inside the door and holding a piece of paper. "Yes?"

"I think I might have found something interesting. Actually I think it was more luck." The thin man took a limping step forward. "I contacted the different manufacturers and was able to find a Mr. Leslie Hamilton who purchased a 1937 F Super Morgan."

Foyle put Ericcson's file to the side. Now it seemed like they were getting somewhere. "Let me see."

Paul handed the paper over with a smile.

Frowning, Foyle glanced through the information then nodded his head. "Good work, Milner."

Paul gave him a sheepish look. "Well, it helped that there's not a lot of three wheeled vehicles out there, and even fewer Morgan F Supers."

"It still doesn't matter." Christopher smiled and nodded.

Paul nodded and left his office.

Pushing back from the desk, Christopher set the typewriter in place and threaded a sheet of paper within the machine and against the platen. Aligning everything, he glanced at his case notes along with the ones Paul brought and started the laborious process of building a file on a Mr. Leslie Hamilton.

Halfway through the telephone rang. To his credit, he didn't jump. Reaching for the receiver, he put it against his ear. "Foyle."

" _Sir, this is DS Arthur Bledsoe. You know, over in Bexhill."_

"Yes? Did you find anything else on Ericcson?" He reached over and retrieved Ericcson's file once again. He scooted over closer to the phone and set Ericcson's file on the desk where he could open it up.

The voice came across the line sounding angry. _"No. And let me tell you why. It's the bloody government. I don't know if it's even worth the trouble reporting to them anymore."_

Christopher frowned, then closed his eyes. "What happened."

A long sigh came across the scratchy line. _"It's the bloody government trying to keep everything secret. MI5 came traipsing through here and took Ericcson away. Said they would 'take care' of everything."_

 _Damn._ This had happened before. He wasn't going to let another murderer slip through his fingers even if it was for possible national security reasons.

" _I'm sorry, sir. I did what I could."_

"No, don't worry. I'll think of something else. If he is responsible for Miss Woollenhouse's murder then I will make sure that he pays the consequences for his crime." _Even if I have to go all the way up to the King._

Setting the receiver back on its base he rubbed his face. At this point he really had no idea what he could do. He glanced over again to the new Hamilton file. At this point it seemed that the only thing that was making any sort of headway. Placing Ericcson's file off to the side, Christopher read through Paul's notes once again, hoping there would be some information on where the man worked.

He didn't find what he was looking for, well not specifically. The only thing that seemed remotely interesting was that there was a second London area telephone number where he could be reached at that he never noticed before. Was that where he worked, or was it his home telephone number? If there were two, then he was obviously well enough off to have one at his home along with his work. He had one out of necessity. "Milner?"

Paul appeared at his door once again. "Yes, sir?"

"These two telephone numbers, what do you make of them?" Christopher looked up, his finger indicating the specific information on Hamilton. He really wanted to see if the sergeant knew where they were based out of.

The sergeant frowned. "Sir, I forgot to tell you that I'm in the process of tracing them. As you can see, both are London numbers, but that's all I know of for certain. As soon as I have anything, I'll let you know."

Christopher nodded. "Thank you."

"Yes, sir."

Foyle looked back down while listening to the sergeant leave by his odd sounding gait. It was good that Milner had taken the initiative to trace the two numbers. It was now something he didn't need to remind him about. The young sergeant was getting better day by day in more ways than just moving around on his prosthetic leg. He would make a fine super one day, maybe even a chief super.

It was much later in the day when Paul appeared once again in his office. This time he had a grim look on his face. "Sir."

"You found something?"

"Yes." Paul came over and handed him the paper he held then backed away to the door so he could leave.

Christopher furrowed his brow, not entirely sure why Paul was acting the way he was, that was unless…He looked down to the paper and read through the information. _War Department? Damn._

He dropped the paper on his desk and rubbed his face. That was not what he was wanting to see. And to think he had tried his hardest to be transferred to that particular part of the government. If he had been successful, would their positions be reversed, he wondered.

"Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher's head shot up in surprise. _How long has it been?_ "S-Sam?" He glanced to the window and the slowly darkening skies. "You still here?"

She stood just inside his office. "Only for a little bit longer." Her smile melted away revealing concern. "Are you okay?"

He shook his head. "I'm fine. Just tired." _And angry._

She seemed to perk up. "Sir, do you need me to drive you home?" She glanced to the hall then brought her attention back to him. "Mr. Milner has already left along with Brookie, and Mr. Reid. I think the only one left is you and the overnight desk sergeant."

Christopher though about her offer for a minute. It would be nice not having to walk the distance to his home. "Yes. Let me finish up here."

She smiled and turned on her heels and seemed to rush out of his office for the keys to one of the police vehicles.

TBC...


	8. Scene 8

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 8  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 8_

Christopher took the long walk up to the front of the building that housed the War Department. Would he have been actually living in London if he had been successful, he wondered. The box that held his gas mask brushed against his side as he climbed the steps to the main door. On either side were not only soldiers, but also barbed wire. An ever present sign of the war they were committed to fighting to the bitter end whatever that may be.

Stepping inside, his footsteps echoed around the large area as he neared the receptionist. A quick word and he was directed to the correct office.

The room he eventually found was surprisingly severe in its decoration. Only the bare minimum was on display, if you could say that. The man who sat at the desk at the far end wore a dark colored business suit. "You must be, DCS Foyle." Leslie Hamilton stood up and came around the desk, offering his hand.

Christopher nodded then sat down.

"I've heard quite a bit about you." Hamilton sat back down, a smile on his face. "What brings you up to London?"

"Well, I'm here because of a murder investigation."

Hamilton furrowed his brow. "Oh?"

Christopher leaned forward and placed his trilby hat on the desk. "Yes. And your name came up during the investigation."

Hamilton seemed truly taken aback. "Now, how could that be?"

Pulling out his small notebook Foyle flipped through the pages before he found what he was looking for. "Do you know of a woman by the name of Miss Margaret Woollenhouse?"

Hamilton pressed his lips together then looked down to his hands before turning his attention back to Foyle. "I'm sorry, Mr. Foyle, but I don't recognize that name. Any reason why I should?"

Christopher pulled the calling card out of his wallet and handed it over. "What about this?"

Hamilton looked at it before handing it back. "Of course, this is one of my cards. How did you come by it?"

Tucking it back into his wallet, Christopher answered, "It was in Miss Woollenhouse's purse.

"I still don't see how she could come by it."

Christopher let the notebook drop onto his lap then laced his fingers together while shifting into a more comfortable position. "You see. It turns out you're the beneficiary on a life assurance policy that was taken out on Miss Woollenhouse. It also has your signature on the document."

"Really?"

Christopher gave him a thoughtful look. "Why don't you tell me your real relationship to Miss Woollenhouse?"

Hamilton leaned forward and closed his eyes as if in resignation. Foyle hoped that he could finally get the information he needed.

"I admit," Leslie seemed to draw the sentence out, "we have a relationship."

The man's words weren't all that surprising. "Mistress?"

Hamilton sighed. "Yes." His eyes opened wide. "Why are you asking me all these questions? Did my wife send you?"

Foyle looked at him, debating on how much information he wanted to reveal. "No. I'm here because Miss Woollenhouse's body washed up on the shore in Hastings."

"Good God."

Christopher took his response as being genuine, but he wasn't all that sure at this point. "That," he pressed on, "and the fact of your relationship along with the assurance policy, I could easily have you arrested for her murder."

Hamilton shook his head. "Dead?" It came out sounding almost like a squeak. "I didn't kill her."

Foyle thought his reactions were genuine, somewhat, yet he still had to ask the questions. "Were you in Hastings?"

"Y-yes," Hamilton sighed. "I didn't kill her though. I could never kill her."

"Yet at the same time you're the last person to be seen with her alive."

Hamilton leaned back as if slapped.

Christopher leaned forward and reached for his hat. "Thank you for your time Mr. Hamilton."

"Wait," Leslie reached a hand across his desk. "Is that it?"

"For now." He stood up, hat now firmly in hand and moved towards the door.

"You will tell me who the murderer is, Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher turned to look at the man. Somehow he seemed beaten down. "If it's not you." He set his hat on his head and left the office. He believed the man up to a point, but that wasn't his job. If he did commit the murder then he was obligated to have him arrested. It would do no good to start bending the rules at this point in time. Then there was Ericcson. He shook his head as he left the building and made his way down to the street where he found a very familiar looking Wolseley.

"Sam?" he looked in and found it was Sam. "What are you doing here?"

She rolled down the driver's side window. "I thought I was your driver."

 _Why do I keep trying to explain myself to her?_ He frowned then bit his lower lip, trying to admonish her without words. He wasn't beholden to her, yet sometimes it felt that way. "I told you I didn't need your driving today."

"But it's my job."

That was something he couldn't argue with. Yes it was her job, yet there were times he knew it was best that he went by himself. "Sam," he started then shook his head. "Never mind," he finished as he climbed into the front passenger seat.

"Why were you here in London? Was it part of Miss Woollenhouse's murder?" She slid the car into first and pulled away from the curb to merge into the never ending traffic that was part of central London that even the war couldn't stop.

She was treading on thin ice, and he knew it. Christopher knew he shouldn't be discussing his cases with her, but she made it so easy. Sometimes she even helped him in trying to work out his next moves. "I would ask the same of you."

Sam blushed. It seems that he caught her red handed. "I was curious, that's all."

"Sam, that same curiosity can get you in trouble." _It can get_ _ **me**_ _in trouble._

TBC...


	9. Scene 9

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 9  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

You've been expecting this for a while now. Enjoy!

 _Scene 9_

Christopher looked across the cab of the Wolseley and sighed. He always hated when he had to contact New Scotland Yard. It seemed like a slap on his abilities as a senior detective. It made him feel as if he wasn't able to do his job. At the same time, there were no other options. There was nothing on Ericcson or Hamilton. And then there was the victim who seemed to just appear out of nowhere, which was very interesting in and of itself.

If there was one thing he knew, he just didn't have the resources that New Scotland Yard possessed. And then with the war, it made things even more difficult.

With the letter he sent several days prior, he hoped he didn't leave anything out. He didn't even know the best person to reach for the investigation. That same letter stayed in his 'out' box until one of the constables made the rounds for the post.

Several days later, he received a telephone call informing him who he needed to speak to in London. A Detective Superintendent Charles Parker was his name. The lower rank meant nothing to him, especially if he had the information he was looking for.

"New Scotland Yard?" Sam cocked her head as she pulled out onto the King's Highway. "Why didn't you talk on the telephone?"

He gave her a smile. "It's safer."

Sam nodded while keeping her attention on the road. It wouldn't take that long to reach the large city.

"Mr. Foyle, do you think we can get something to eat after your meeting?" She shot him what seemed to be a hopeful look.

"Maybe." At her frown he gave her his own smile, "It depends on what time it is."

"Right."

It was close to an hour later when they pulled into the car park for visitors of New Scotland Yard. "I would ask for you to stay here, but I'm not sure how long I'll be."

Sam smiled and reached for her book then followed him into the building.

They walked across the large common area to one of the windows that was occupied by what Foyle thought of as a desk sergeant. "Excuse me, I'm DCS Foyle from Hastings, and I need to speak with Detective Charles Parker." He pulled out his ID and handed it over.

The constable's eyes widened as he nodded. "Of course, sir. And you, miss?"

"Oh?" The question startled Sam. "Sam Stewart of the MTC. I'm Mr. Foyle's driver." She handed her own ID over.

As soon as the constable was satisfied, he handed the IDs back and indicated one of the doors. "This way."

Now past the common area, they were brought into a long corridor with benches in various places. Sam went to the nearest one and sat down. Christopher watched her for a moment before following her. They remained there until a man in a nondescript suit came down the corridor. "Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher stood up and gave the man the once over. His dark hair belied the man's age, and he was somewhat taller, but that was it. "Yes?"

"Sir, I'm Detctive Parker." With a sweep of his hand he indicated the corridor. They walked for several minutes before Parker continued, "Your letter held little information, sir."

"Well, it was the best I could do. Hastings doesn't have the resources, and with the war, it's even worse."

Charles nodded. "That, sir, I can understand. I do have a question for you."

Christopher glanced at Charles. "Which is?"

"How would you feel working with a private detective?"

* * *

Peter Wimsey paced back and forth in Detective Superintendent Charles Parker's small office. One would think having a more than respectable rank within New Scotland Yard would be the portent of having a decent sized office. Not even the man's personal connection to the aristocracy could help him in that matter. He sat back down, only to get back up and begin pacing once again. At least he had a window.

" _Sir, how would you feel working with a private detective?"_ Charles' voice came from just beyond the slightly ajar office door.

" _Well, it depends. Do you think he might be able to help?"_ came a maddeningly familiar voice.

" _Sir, I would think by now you'd know that there are times when it's easier for a citizen to ask questions that we cannot."_

" _I see."_

Peter sat back down, frowning. For the life of him, he couldn't think of who that voice belonged to.

The door opened behind him, and Charles spoke again, "Peter?"

At the invitation, Peter rose to his feet and put his monocle in place. "Yes?" He turned and focused his attention on the two men now standing before him. The newcomer seemed very familiar. He looked closer then realized who he was. He let his monocle drop, and he found he had a rather difficult time keeping his mouth from flopping open in some rather vulgar display of astonishment. "You? I never thought I would see you alive," he finally forced out.

"I never expected to get out of there alive myself." The side of the newcomer's mouth quirked up in a half-smile. He held a dark blue trilby in hand.

Charles shook his head. It was clear he was not expecting their reactions. "Do you know each other?"

Peter tapped his lips with a finger then put his monocle back in place. "Charles, I did a spot of intelligence work during the war. Mr. Foyle was with me while we were behind enemy lines. We were separated on our way out."

"DCS Foyle is the reason why you are here, Peter." Charles turned back to Christopher. "If you could have a seat, sir?" He indicated the other chair in the office that was yet to be claimed while he went behind his desk. Foyle sat down and looked as if this would be a long and drawn out conversation. From Peter's perspective, the man didn't seem all that keen on being at New Scotland Yard any longer than needed.

Turning back to Charles, he gave the man a wide grin, "So I assume this is not a social call." Once again he loosened the muscles that held his monocle in place allowing it to drop. It bounced at the end of its line then tapped against his chest as he sat down.

"No." Parker shook his head. "Mr. Foyle has given me cursory information he has on the case he's investigating, and it isn't that much." He directed his question towards Christopher, "Has there been anything else between the time you sent the letter and now?"

Out of the corner of his eye Peter saw Christopher frown. "Not really. Then again, as I mentioned before it has been rather difficult being such short staffed lately, and I don't really like asking for help."

"Unless absolutely needed," Peter mused. "You know, I seem to remember you were like that. It looks to me that nothing's really changed."

"Only that we're older."

"That too."

The Hastings senior detective looked at the two men with a fair amount of reservation, at least that's what Peter interpreted his look as being. "Look old man, I would like to help if I can."

Christopher chewed on his bottom lip while pulling out his note pad. He flipped through it until he found what he was looking for. "A woman's body was found washed up on the beach."

"I don't see…."

"From what I've gathered, she's the mistress to one of the high ranking officials in the War Department. There is also a remote possibility that's not the only department she's connected with."

 _Oh?_ Peter cocked his head then looked down at his fingers before turning his full attention back to Foyle.

The detective's frown deepened. "I'm having a difficult time investigating this whole mess while keeping it quiet."

"If this is as high up as you think it is, it could rock the boat, and not in a good way."

"No." Christopher set the note pad on his lap.

As the silence thickened Peter couldn't help but remember that Foyle really hadn't changed since their stint in intelligence work during the war. Once again, he felt like he had to pull every little bit of information out of the man, now police officer. "Look, Foyle, do you want my help or not?"

"Yes." It wasn't quite a whisper, but close.

Peter forced himself not to show his relief. "Good," the word came out more briskly than he anticipated. "I need to telephone my wife, and then I can get back to you. How long will you be in London?" He stood and went for his overcoat he had hung earlier on the rack. Turning his attention back to Foyle, he couldn't help but notice the relief in the man's light blue eyes. "And yes, I will be as discreet as possible" He turned back to Charles, "Give Polly and the kids my love."

Charles nodded. "Of course. She'll be sad that you didn't stop by. You always seem to be in Hertfordshire."

Peter gave him an amused grin then turned back to Foyle. "Well?"

"My area is Hastings. I'll be leaving London in about an hour."

"I can follow you down then. I'll have my man check to see if there are any hotel rooms. We leave from here?"

Christopher nodded.

"Good. Cheerio." Peter nodded and left Charles' office. A short distance down the corridor he saw a pretty woman in an MTC uniform sitting on a bench and reading a familiar looking book. He ignored her as he trained his sights on the door that would eventually lead him to the outside. He did need to speak with Harriet to let her know. She would be rather put out that she couldn't help him, but it was to be expected at this point in time. It was safer for her and the boys to be away from London.

* * *

Charles kept his eyes trained on the door that was now closed.

"How long have you known him?" Christopher asked.

Turning his attention back to the Hastings police detective he gave him a knowing look. "We met in the early '20s at apparently his first outing since the end of the war."

Foyle raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"I am in no place to spread gossip. It's a story that only Wimsey should tell." He rose to his feet and with his hand he indicated the door. "I do hope your trip up here hasn't been a total waste, sir."

"I wouldn't say that, Mr. Parker." Foyle stood with him and put his hat on before turning to exit the office. "It's a damn nuisance having to ask for help."

Parker gave him a smile. "And you wish to keep this quiet."

"As much as I can." As they neared the woman in the MTC uniform sitting on the bench, she looked up and jumped to her feet with a smile on her face.

"Ready to go, Mr. Foyle?" she asked with as much of a serious look as she could give.

Foyle seemed almost to try to explain the now seemingly awkward situation. "This is Miss Stewart, my driver. Compliments of the MTC by way of the Police Commissioner. Mr. Parker, war makes strange bedfellows."

"Of course it does." Charles answered with a smile.

TBC...


	10. Scene 10

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 10  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 10_

Sam managed to keep her questions to herself until they were in the relative privacy of the Wolseley. Once there, she unloaded the question Foyle knew was coming. "So, how'd it go?" Even with her level of excitement she managed to remain semi-still behind the wheel.

Foyle gave her a sidelong glance. He stretched out his arm to let it rest on the back of the front seats as if hedging his bets. "As best it could be. It seems that for now, I will have the help of a private investigator."

If possible, her smile was even bigger than before. _"Private investigator?_ Oh jolly good! Who is he? I wonder if he's just like some of the ones I read about."

"I don't think…." As soon as the words were out of his mouth Christopher wondered if it was the right thing to say.

Pulling to a stop, she looked at him. "I don't think what?"

Christopher gave her an indulgent smile. "Never mind." He then turned his attention back to the road. "As long as we're here, we might as well get something to eat."

"Oh yes!"

Which was the reaction he knew he'd get.

With the war time rationing, restaurants were hard to come by. What was difficult was seeing all the families out on the streets and waiting in various lines. It was if the Depression had never ended. It also made Foyle wonder if the war was really worth it if everyone ended up dying because of starvation.

In the ensuing silence, it also gave Foyle time to think about more than just the case. With practiced ease, he watched Sam out of the corner of his eye. He had found he had always enjoyed watching her, whether it be her shifting through the car's gears, or her puttering around the station.

"Sir?" Sam gave him another sidelong look.

He shifted so he was now leaning somewhat against the door while keeping his arm draped across the back of the front seats. "Mmmm…yes?"

"What's he like?"

"Huh?" He frowned, at first not sure who Sam was referring to. He chewed on the inside of his cheek when he realized who it was she was asking about. He wondered just how much he should tell her. Wimsey had clearly offered his help, and he had accepted it. His main thoughts were on how the rest of the Hastings Constabulary would accept his presence. "An aristocrat."

Sam's eyes widened enough to make it look like they were about to pop out of her face. "Really?" she squeaked. She turned her attention back to the road and what looked like a restaurant nearby. "Oh, I think there's one Mr. Foyle."

The simple meal, thankfully, kept her from asking any more questions. At least he could answer her truthfully when he told her he didn't know much else. All he could remember of the man from their short time in Germany was that the aristocrat had unaccented German, which was more than he could say for himself.

It was close to an hour later when they returned to New Scotland Yard, yet this time they waited outside. "Stay in the car, Sam," Foyle told her as he stepped out of the vehicle and moved over to the pavement.

"You said it'd be in an hour. Are you sure he'll be here?"

"Yes." Foyle glanced around. It was only then when he realized he had never asked what type of car Wimsey drove. He needn't have worried, for the man in question drove up in a black Daimler saloon and parked behind the Wolseley. It had its material cover pulled over the cab in case it rained.

"Oh I say, is that him?" Sam whispered while looking at the car through the mirrors.

"Yes. Wait here." Foyle walked back to the waiting car. Wimsey was dressed in a tan overcoat and a similar hat to his own. His monocle was hanging from a cord tied around his neck.

Peter gave him an apologetic look. "Look, I'm sorry old chap, but my man informed me shortly before I left that there seems to be no proverbial rooms at the inn."

"I have a stable you can use. My son is stationed somewhere near here." Foyle hesitated, "Man?" He heard Wimsey use the term before, but he wasn't quite sure if it was what he thought it meant.

"Mr. Foyle, I have a valet. I assumed it would be too pretentious of me if he came along. Don't worry, I assure you that I can muddle through by myself." Wimsey gave him an amused smile.

"Good." Foyle nodded. He was not about to wait on the man hand and foot. "I'm in the car in front."

"I'll follow so I shan't get lost."

"Hastings is easy enough to find." Foyle tipped his hat and headed back to the Wolseley.

Once he was settled back into the front passenger seat, Sam eased the car into first gear. "You do remember I had a beastly time trying to get a decent billet after being bombed out of my first one. Where will Mr. Aristocrat be staying?"

Inside he smiled. "How can I forget. And his name is Wimsey. It seems he will be staying with me for the duration of the investigation."

Sam cocked her head and furrowed her brows. "Wimsey? Is he related to the Duke?"

"I suspect he is, though he's never mentioned it."

A few of hours later Sam pulled up in front of a white washed nondescript house in Hastings. "Sam, I don't think I'll be needing your driving for the rest of the day." Christopher reached for the door handle while giving her a meaningful look.

"Okay," she gave him her usual smile. "Do you want me to come by at my usual time tomorrow morning?"

"Do that." He gave her a smile that reached his eyes then climbed out of the car. This time she had come up the hill keeping the Channel behind them so he could step out straight onto the pavement.

She leaned over and rolled the window down. "Sir?"

"Yes?" He put his hands on the door to support his weight.

She gave him an impish grin. "I want to know all about him. I've never met an aristocrat before."

"I suspect you do." He took a step back and straightened. "I'll see you tomorrow." He watched as she put the car in gear and drove away, heading towards the police garage and then to her own billet.

With the Wolseley gone, the Daimler pulled up to the now empty spot. Peter gave him an amused smile. "Chauffeur? You know, old chap, I thought you could drive."

"I can, though it's been a long time." Christopher shrugged. "The AC refused my transfer request into the War Department. Plus, I had always used a driver. So with everyone being so short staffed, it came from the MTC." His smile once again reached his eyes. "Sam will be by tomorrow morning at around 8:30."

Turning off the Daimler's engine, Peter got out of the car and retrieved his suitcase from the boot.

Christopher climbed the steps and unlocked the front door to his home. "I'm sorry, but all I can offer you is some trout. The rationing has made it very difficult lately."

Peter's look seemed to border on compassion. "Contrary to what everyone thinks, we are also in the same position. We are also doing what we can to help with the war effort."

"So your brother is the Duke?"

"Yes." A flash of something crossed Peter's face. It piqued Christopher's curiosity, but he felt he was in no position to ask any questions. If Wimsey didn't wish to speak about it, he wouldn't force him.

"Well, let me show you where you'll be sleeping." They moved through the entry hall, removing overcoats and hats then headed towards the stairs. Andrew's room was clean, Sam had seen to it the one and only time she was here. After Peter deposited his things, they found themselves back in the lounge.

With it being such a mild summer day, instead of lighting a fire in the fireplace, Christopher went over to the windows and looked out to the slowly darkening skies. It nearing the time to prepare the house for blackout conditions. The process took about fifteen minutes. With the natural light removed, the bulbs from the lamps gave the room a warm and almost inviting glow. Turning, he found Peter studying with great interest the watercolor painting above one of the fireplaces.

"This is quite lovely."

"Thank you. My wife painted that." The once almost blinding grief Christopher experienced shortly after Rosalind's death had slowly been replaced with what he could only call a gentle wistfulness. Sometimes he wondered if Sam's mere presence helped move it further along. She was like a bright sunny day in the middle of this dreadful and gloomy war. _What will I do when this war is over and she's gone?_

Peter turned from his study to the rest of the room.

"I would offer you some _Glenlivet_ , but it's gone. And it's impossible to come by anymore. Although, I do have some bourbon."

"Bourbon?"

"Yes, from the Americans." Christopher went over to the bottle and poured Peter a glass then poured one for himself.

"Let's hope this war is over soon." Peter nodded and took a sip.

"Yes…."

Peter downed the rest of the bourbon. "You know, old chap, you said something about trout. I thought that type of fish was almost impossible to come by."

"Not really." Christopher gave him an amused look then headed towards the kitchen to prepare dinner. "All it takes is a bit of time."

"Time?"

Christopher looked over his shoulder then pulled out two trout from the ice box. He frowned when he realized he wasn't sure how to address the aristocrat. "Um…these were swimming in the river several days ago."

"I see." Peter then gave him a look, one that Christopher assumed was compassion. "I know this is damned awkward for you. To make things easier, you can call me Peter."

"Thank you…Peter."

TBC...


	11. Scene 11

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 11  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

I'll be out of pocket starting tomorrow and going through the entire weekend. That being the case, you get the next offering early. :)

 _Scene 11_

There was only one thing that could wake Christopher so thoroughly in the middle of the night. The air raid siren sounded again. It was a long and mournful howl. Throwing the covers off, Christopher leaped from his bed and reached for his dressing gown. In only a couple of seconds he had it and fastened while he was slipping on his house slippers. The last thing he reached for was his new battery powered torch that was on the dresser before leaving the room. Standing on the landing Peter stood there, pulling his own dark dressing gown closed. "Where?"

"This way." Christopher used his policeman's voice, and he didn't really care. His goal was to reach the shelter before the bombs started dropping. They hurried down the stairs and went through the kitchen to the garden out back. In the middle of the grassy area was a dark and somewhat narrow mound. An Anderson. Foyle ducked down and opened the door to crawl into the long and somewhat narrow space it provided. Once Peter joined him, he shut the corrugated door then used the torch to check to see if all was in order. "Don't worry. We won't suffocate. There are air holes."

Swinging the torch light around again, Christopher searched for one of the lamps he had stored under a side bench. Finding it, he used a match and lit the wick so he wouldn't waste the torch batteries. "Make yourself at home," he gave the aristocrat a wry grin as he hung the lamp from a hook in the ceiling. In that position it gave the illusion of having more light than it put out, either that or his eyes were adjusting to the dim interior. He watched as Peter moved over to one of the storage crates in the back and sank down on it.

The adrenaline Christopher felt earlier washed out of him leaving him exhausted, but he knew he knew he couldn't rest yet, for the ominous sound of aircraft engines approached. _Was Andrew out there?_ As the droning neared another sound joined in. The whistle of a bomb grew until it stopped and then the explosion hit making everything jump. Without thinking, Christopher ducked and raised his hands over his had as if to protect it. Several more bombs dropped, but they seemed to be further away.

With the sudden lull, he went over to another crate and turned it around. The back side was open exposing several blankets that were stored within the space. Pulling one out, he handed it to Peter. "Here." He wrapped another one around him to help keep him warm then sat down.

"I despise this," Peter mumbled. "It's as if I'm back in those bloody trenches."

Christopher looked at Peter and nodded. The man he remembered looking up to during the war seemed to be shivering, and not from the cold. He broke off his examination when the all too familiar whistling sound started accompanied by another explosion. "Peter…what happened."

"Is it that obvious?" the aristocrat grimaced.

Christopher gave him a wry grin before letting it drop. "To a detective."

Peter frowned. "I lay the blame solely at Gerry's feet." He paused then continued, his voice much softer, "Along with a whiz bang and being buried alive under six feet of mud and dirt and Lord knows what else were in those trench walls," he paused as if gathering his thoughts. "I lost what seemed like a year of my life after that little episode. My first real memories were seeing Sergeant Bunter of my regiment dressed as my valet and checking to make sure I hadn't offed myself."

Foyle nodded slowly then looked down to his fingers wondering just how much he should tell. There was something about being in a possible near death situation that gave inducements for confessions. "Even though I was injured later on, they sent me back. I think by that time I was looking for ways to die."

"I think we all were near the end."

The aircraft droning grew louder. This time it sounded like they were right over them. Another bomb was released. It was so loud that it seemed like it was right on top. Christopher dropped to the ground and covered his head, hoping against hope that he'd live through this one.

When the bomb hit, everything in the Anderson jumped and toppled over while the lamp swung wildly from its hook on the ceiling. At least they weren't hit. _Would they be able to get out?_

"Where is your wife?" Peter's voice wavered.

Christopher slowly rose to his feet spitting dirt out of his mouth, and went to the crate to sit back down. It surprised him that it took that long for Wimsey to broach the subject. Maybe he was wondering if she was visiting family or friends. When she never showed up he knew the man had to have questions. "Ro…she, she died of Typhoid back in '32."

Peter shook his head. "I'm sorry for you old chap. That must have been extremely difficult."

Christopher shrugged. Yes, it had been beyond difficult, but somehow he had survived. "Andrew, my son needed me."

It seemed like forever before the "all clear" siren sounded. First Christopher and then Peter crawled out of the shelter. Foyle had no idea if his house had survived the latest gifts from the Germans in care of the Luftwaffe. Taking a chance, he pointed the torch upwards and to the back of the house. It seemed intact, but there was the smell and sound of fire somewhere close by. He turned and could see the all too familiar red flames beyond the back garden wall.

"Whose house?" Christopher heard Peter ask from behind him. For the moment he ignored the question. Climbing on a stool he had near the wall, he peered over only to find the Atwell's house engulfed in flames.

With energy he didn't realize he had, Foyle hoisted himself onto the top of the wall then dropped down in the adjacent garden. In the center, back lit by orange flames was that all too familiar mound of the Atwell's Anderson. He took a step forward and only then realized he left his torch on the other side. Frowning, he looked around for something suitable to use. Finding a rock, he hefted it then went over to the shelter's hatch and used it to pound on the door. "Mrs. Atwell?" he called several times, hoping they made it into the shelter in time. The heat seemed to engulf him, and he could feel sweat dripping down his neck and under his pyjama jacket.

Sirens began to draw near, most likely coming from the Fire Brigade. Christopher kept pounding on the door, still hoping that there was someone inside, but there seemed to be no answer. What felt like an eternity later, a muffled voice, almost drowned out by the roaring fire, came from inside the shelter. Christopher took a step back and waited anxiously for the hatch to open. When it finally did, he peered into the darkness still hoping that Mrs. Atwell and her children were safe. He never felt more relieved when he heard her children crying from fright.

"Mrs. Atwell? Are you okay?" Foyle coughed, not at all surprised that his voice seemed to be failing him as he dropped the rock.

"Mr. Foyle?" the woman's voice wavered.

"Yes. Did everyone make it into the shelter?"

"Yes."

He reached out and grasped her trembling hand to her, and then her children out. Mrs. Atwell gasped as she turned around and saw her home for the first time. "Oh no."

"Don't think about that right now. I need to get you inside. You can stay at my place until morning, and then we can figure out what to do." With both hands, Christopher guided her towards the back wall. Reaching it, he cupped his hands around his mouth, "Can you hand over the stool?"

"Yes," came Peter's muffled reply. The stool appeared quickly and Christopher set it on the ground near the wall.

"Mrs. Atwell, there is someone on the other side that will help you and your children."

"You're too kind, Mr. Foyle."

He gave her a kindly smile. "Just doing my job." And with that she disappeared over the wall. The children were next. When he was the only one left he handed the stool back over the garden wall.

"What about you?" Peter called.

"There's a tree over here that I can use." And with that, he was soon back in his own garden.

Once inside, Christopher directed them to the lounge while Peter hung back and fixed the now homeless family some tea.

"I wish Gerry would just sod off," Mrs. Atwell mumbled as she wrapped her hands around the warm cup that she was offered.

TBC...


	12. Scene 12

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 12  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 12_

The sun had made its appearance over the horizon several hours ago and Christopher was already exhausted. It had been a long time since he had stayed up all night. It made him feel old. He sat in his chair with his head propped up by his hand, more or less drifting, or maybe he was just dozing off. At least he was able to pull the black out curtains back revealing the morning light.

"I haven't done this since the children were small," Peter mused.

"Well, I've had to do this for more than just my son, it's just been some time." Christopher glanced up to the ceiling, thinking about how Mrs. Atwell's two boys were now sleeping, albeit fitfully, in his bed. It turned out that the older of the two boys had left the curtains of his bedroom wide open with the light on. It was like a beacon for the Luftwaffe. It had taken a bit of coaxing, but the boy had finally admitted to the action. His punishment was the knowledge that their house was now in ruins because of what he had done. Christopher thought that was well enough for the boy. Hopefully he learned his lesson, but only time would tell.

"What time did you say your driver would be coming around?"

"Um…" Christopher's brain felt fuzzy making it difficult for him to think straight. "8:30." He looked over to the grandfather clock and then back to Peter. It was nearing the time that Sam would come by. At this point he was more inclined to just stay home and sleep it off then head to the station.

"Are—" the clock interrupted Peter with the bottom of the hour chime, "you planning on…."

As if on cue, someone knocked at the door.

"That's Sam."

"I'll get it." Peter pushed himself to his feet and went to the front door and opened it. For the second time in so many days he had a difficult time not letting his mouth flop open in surprise.

"Hallo, sir." It was the same young woman he had seen in New Scotland Yard reading a book who now stood before him saluting smartly. "I'm Mr. Foyle's driver."

"You must be Sam?"

"Yes, sir." She beamed at him. "Is Mr. Foyle ready?"

"Sam," Christopher called.

Peter backed away, letting her enter the house.

"Mr. Foyle?" she asked tentatively with her head cocked and brow furrowed. Turning the corner from the entry hall, she moved into the lounge and hesitated before heading straight for him. "Are you okay? Should I call Mr. Reid to let him know you're not coming in today?"

He batted at her hands, trying to push her away. "No…don't, Sam. I've been up all night." It was bad enough that Sam knew about Wimsey. At this point he didn't want to tell the rest of his men about the aristocrat until he felt ready.

"I heard…where…I mean, which house was hit? I heard it was one of the houses in this area," the words tumbled out of her mouth as she leaned back on her heels.

"It was the Atwell's. They're upstairs right now."

Sam shook her head. "Poor thing." She straightened. "I know just the thing. I'll make her some tea." She stood and went for the kitchen.

"Never mind her," Christopher yawned and rubbed his face again. He gave her an indulgent smile that seemed to border on something more as she turned to look at him.

"Are you sure, Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher eventually just shook his head. "Forget it," he muttered.

Peter frowned as he looked from Christopher to Sam and back to Christopher. This was not what he was expecting. If he wasn't mistaken there seemed to be something going on between the two. Lurking behind the tired and amused affection seemed to be something more.

"Foyle?" He raised his eyebrows.

Christopher looked up and scowled at apparently getting caught. The detective knew exactly what he was asking about. "It's not right."

With a shrug, Peter eventually followed Christopher's young driver into the kitchen.

"So you're Sam?"

Sam looked up from the kitchen table where she was in the process of getting the tea ready. "Samantha Stewart actually. But you can call me Sam…my Lord."

The kettle on the hob started whistling as Peter began pacing back and forth. "Stewart…Stewart…" Her features along with the family name jarred something in his memory. At this point it was maddeningly just out of reach. "I know I've heard that name before."

She turned from the stove and brought the steaming kettle over. "Even with such a common name I don't see how, my Lord." Her look now bordered on trepidation. "You see, my father's just the vicar over at Lyminster."

Peter stopped in mid stride, his grey eyes now bright. "Lyminster?"

"Yes, my Lord." She returned the kettle to its place then came back to let the tea steep in the hot water.

Even though he was just as tired as Christopher, a look of triumph crossed his face now accompanied by a smile. "Of course. Bishop Stewart. That's where I've heard it."

Her surprise was complete. "You know him? I mean my grandfather along with my father and uncles?"

Peter leaned against the wall and slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. "Not really, my girl. It's more like I know of him.

Sam's brilliant smile faded somewhat. "Oh."

"Does your father know you're in Hastings attached to the police?" He had to admit that he was worried for her safety.

This time she looked incensed. "Of course he does. He's also met Mr. Foyle."

Peter nodded while keeping his face neutral. He could see what Christopher was attracted to the lively young woman. She was like a bright ray of sunshine in this dull and gloomy war. The only saving grace was that her family knew she was here.

Finishing up the tea, she loaded up a tray and brought it into the lounge. Peter followed her, curious to see if Mrs. Atwell had come downstairs yet.

Christopher was standing near the settee, while Mrs. Atwell was standing over at the bureau, telephone in hand. Sam came over by him. "Mr. Foyle?"

Startled, he whirled around, then rubbed his forehead. "S-sorry, Sam."

"Don't worry, Mr. Foyle. I'll just put it here." She smiled and set the tray down on the coffee table.

Mrs. Atwell sniffed as she replaced the receiver, then sat down in the chair attached to the desk and put her face in her hands.

"Are you okay?" Sam came up and knelt down beside her.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," she shook her head.

Sam looked over her shoulder to Foyle. Their eyes connected and she turned back to the now homeless mother. "Come over here. I've made some tea." The distraught woman stood, and Sam was able to lead her to the settee so she could have some hot tea.

"I don't want the boys to realize that they've no place to go." She shook her head then took a sip of the tea.

"No local family?"

"No."

"Not even the hotel?"

"No."

"Wait here." Sam rose to her feet and went over to Foyle. Peter stepped back towards the dining table, not wishing to interfere with something that was obviously local.

"Mr. Foyle?" She kept her voice low. "Do you think the station could do something for her?"

He gave her a kind smile.

"Good. I'll call Brookie." She went over to his phone and made the call, explaining the situation to the desk sergeant.

Putting the receiver down, she went back to the settee.

Christopher had come over and was pouring himself a cup of tea. "Did he say who would come?"

Sam shook her head looking guilty. "No. And I didn't even think to ask."

"That's okay." He shook his head.

It was Hugh Reid that showed up along with his wife Pearl. Mrs. Atwell was upstairs getting her two boys out of bed. They eventually came down the stairs, rubbing sleep out of their eyes. At the sight of Hugh in his chief superintendent uniform, their eyes widened.

"You must be Jimmy and Danny," Hugh came up to them. He looked as if he were going to crouch down, but decided against the action.

"Yes, sir," the older one answered while looking at the floor.

"Oh, Mr. Reid, their house…" Sam stopped just short of mentioning the bombing.

"I saw," he answered. Turning to his wife, they talked in low voices for a few minutes then Pearl came up to the Atwell's.

"How would you like to stay with us for a few days until you get everything sorted out? We've got the room."

"Oh, I couldn't."

Pearl looked to Mrs. Atwell. "But I insist."

Pearl was always a force to be reckoned with. Now that her mind made up, the Atwell's had little choice but to go along.

Sam took the tray back into the kitchen when the four finally left the house. Hugh turned his attention back to Christopher. "What happened?"

"A gift from the Luftwaffe," Christopher shook his head. "Jimmy never did pull the curtains closed in his room. It was like target practice for the Germans."

Hugh whistled. "You're lucky they were accurate."

Christopher went to the closest fireplace and propped an elbow on the mantle so he could rub his face. "Yeah. We were already in the Anderson by that time."

Hugh folded his arms. "Which reminds me, can you introduce me to your guest, and why he's here?"

Christopher looked from Peter to Hugh and back to Peter again. "It has to do with the Woollenhouse murder. I've found evidence that there's connections in at least the War Department, maybe even higher."

Hugh glanced over to Peter. "I see." He paused, "Which is why you're here?"

"Peter Wimsey," Peter came forward and reached out a hand in greeting.

Hugh's eyes widened as he took the hand.

Peter's smile bordered on understanding kindness. "You see, Mr. Reid, I'm a private detective."

Hugh turned his attention back to Christopher and gave him a wry grin. "So we're hiring civilians now?"

Christopher brought his attention back to Hugh. "It was the detective at New Scotland Yard that offered it. I wasn't that keen on it at first, but I've come to realize that if anything does go wrong in this investigation I don't want either you or Milner to be arrested for it."

Hugh frowned. "I see. Which is why you're not going to discuss the case with me."

"It's not that, Hugh. I'm sorry, but it's for your own safety."

Hugh folded his arms as Sam returned from the kitchen. "And what about Sam?"

"Drat."

"I see you haven't thought everything through." Hugh gave him a knowing look. "Which normally happens when you're short on sleep."

"Compliments of the Germans," Christopher muttered.

"What about me?" Sam looked from Christopher to Hugh and back to Christopher.

Hugh smiled at her. "You'll find out soon enough, Miss Stewart."

"It can't be helped." Christopher shook his head.

After Hugh finally left, Christopher was back in his chair. He knew he'd sleep well that evening.

"So, who is this Miss Woollenhouse?" Peter slipped his hands into his trouser pockets.

Even with the tea service back in the kitchen, Sam brought him another cup of the dark brew. "Thanks, Sam." He tried not to yawn, and managed to succeed until she had turned away.

"Her body washed up on the beach several days ago. She was murdered. I _thought_ we had a lead with a lad we picked up in Bexhill, but MI5 came in and took him away."

"It sounds like she ended up being collateral damage from a possible, oh I don't know, maybe a governmental investigation?"

"Could be. That's what I'm leaning towards at the moment. But who is, or was, the one being watched?"

Sam frowned. "She could have been at the wrong place and wrong time. Kind of like when I was first sent over to be your driver and we were in that pub that was bombed."

Christopher gave her a bit of a smile. "Maybe."

"My question, though," Peter went to the other chair and sat down, "is if you've spoken to anyone within the government."

Christopher cocked his head. "I have. Miss Woollenhouse had a card in her purse for a Mr. Leslie Hamilton of the War Department. It turns out they were having an affair."

Peter gave him a thoughtful look. "I suppose he lives in London?"

For the life of him, Christopher could not remember whether or not he checked into that little bit of information. He rather assumed he did, but at the same time he knew that was not a good thing to do.

"Why don't I ask someone to talk to his servants? No one ever questions servants."

 _Maybe bringing Wimsey into the investigation was a good idea,_ Christopher mused. "How long will it take?"

Peter gave him an airy wave, "A couple of days at the most. I know the perfect person for this little job."

TBC...


	13. Scene 13

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 13  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 13_

Mervyn Bunter put down the phone and drummed his fingers on the desk before him. Once again he was doing something for his Lordship. He didn't mind it, not really. It made his position within his Lordship's household most interesting. Then again, he could do things that Peter would never be able, which made him invaluable. No one every asked him why he was in different places. Servants were invisible. He knew it. Peter knew it.

Instead of preparing what he needed, he stayed by the phone, waiting for the next call. That one would be giving him the information he needed to complete this particular escapade, or at least he assumed.

"That was Lord Peter, wasn't it."

Mervyn turned to the woman who spoke. Early on in his relationship and then marriage with Hope Fanshaw, she looked to be put off by the errands he seemed to always be doing for his Lordship. He never questioned them; it was just the way they worked together. "Yes. I shall be traveling to London this time."

Relief permeated her features. He knew it had been difficult for her during his trip to the continent with his Lordship earlier in the war. Hopefully those dangerous days were over. London was much easier, and safer, to deal with, along with household servants.

"Where will you be staying?"

Bunter thought for a moment. He hadn't reached this point. He didn't even know what he would be retrieving for his Lordship, that is if it was an object and not information. "If possible I'll stay at Audley Square."

The phone rang, making them both jump. Mervyn glanced back to Hope before reaching for the receiver. "Hullo…Yes? And you are? I see." He reached for a pencil and paper to write. "I'm ready." For several minutes he wrote furiously then slowed down. "Yes. I will."

"Who was that?" Hope asked as he hung up the phone.

"Detective Parker." He put the pencil down and folded up the paper to tuck it into one of his pockets.

"So, did he give you your orders?"

"In so many words." Bunter rose and went down the hall to his son's bedroom. Who would have thought at this stage in his life that he'd be married to a woman who was not a servant. Society had changed so much since the Great War. Sometimes he didn't know what his position was anymore. Opening the door, he peeked in to see if Peter was awake yet. It was still a bit early for the child to be up. The 6-year-old was twisted in the blankets.

Cat-footed he crept into the room then gently sat on the edge of the small bed. The dipping of the mattress did the trick. Peter's eyes opened, then he yawned and stretched.

"I'm leaving for London."

"When?"

"In a little while. And don't worry, I will be back soon enough." He reached out a hand and cupped the child's face. "Be good for your mama."

Peter sat up and wrapped his short arms around his waist. "Love you," the child's voice was muffled because of his shirt.

Bunter smiled and wrapped his arms around his son. "Love you, my son."

Rising, Bunter left the room to retrieve his jacket and other sundry items he knew he'd need.

"Mervyn?"

"Yes?" he turned back to his wife.

"Be careful."

He cupped her face with his hand and gave her a quick kiss. "As much as I can. I'll give you a ring when I reach Audley Square." And with that, he exited their small home in Hertfordshire for the large house in London.

The confidence Bunter showed to Hope dissipated when he saw the bombed out buildings in the large city. He wasn't even sure if Audley Square was still standing. He'd have to figure something out if that were the case.

Turning the corner to the street it was on, he was never more relieved to see that the building was still intact, except that the windows were covered. Many of the homes in the city were empty since their owners had fled to the countryside to escape the bombing. Just the thought of his Majesty stubbornly staying in Buckingham Palace during the worst of it made him feel that at least there were some that refused to leave. Then again, he did also, which made him feel guilt up to a point. _It's for my son's protection,_ was the only reason he could give.

Parking in the garage, he took the stairs to the large apartment above. He lived here with Hope before and after young Peter's birth. The simple but expensive decorations belied his status of a servant in society. To have the entire place decorated by the dowager Duchess was a great honor indeed. Reaching the desk, he sat down and made two calls. The first was to Hope, letting her know that he had arrived safely, and the second was to Detective Parker, letting him know where he was.

Parker would tell him what he needed to do.

About twenty minutes later, someone knocked at the door. There was only one person within the city that knew he was here. Coming to the door, he opened it a crack then further when he recognized the detective. "Mr. Parker." Mervyn backed away, letting the man enter.

With the door now closed, Charles handed him a piece of paper with two addresses.

"What is this, sir?"

"His name is Leslie Hamilton and his residence is due for a delivery tomorrow. I would like for you to go and make the delivery. While you are there see what information you can find about Mr. Hamilton and a Miss Margaret Woollenhouse from the servants.

"The ladies in Mr. Hamilton's employ?" Mervyn gave him a smile.

Charles gave him an answering smile. "I'm not going to ask you how you get the information, and I don't wish to know."

"Of course." Bunter nodded.

"The first address is where you need to go to pick up the delivery, and Mr. Hamilton's is the second." They were both within London.

"Am I expected?"

"Yes."

Mervyn only hoped that there wouldn't be any bombings happening while he was out on the streets.

TBC...


	14. Scene 14

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 14  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 14_

Bunter pulled up to the servant's entrance of the large house. It was in one of the posher neighborhoods in London, which wasn't all that surprising.

Turning off the engine, he retrieved the envelope and went over to the delivery door to knock on it. Several years had passed since his Lordship asked for him to do this. Guilt nagged at him at what he was about to do. _Forgive me Hope,_ he silently pleaded as the door opened in front of him.

The woman who answered looked older and tired. Thinking it would make him more agreeable, he made himself sound like he was closer to her station in life. "'Allo, I'm here to deliver a package for a," he glanced at the name on the package, "Mr. Hamilton."

The woman before straightened as she looked him up and down. "Jolly good that'll do 'im," she grumbled.

It surprised Bunter that her accent was similar to the locals that lived in and around Lord Peter's Hertfordshire residence, called Talboys, but he wouldn't tell her that. He backed up a step. "This is the Hamilton's residence?"

"Yes."

He held the thin package up. "Maybe I should bring this by lat'r?"

"And force ye to come around again? Never mind that." She opened the door to allow him entrance.

"Is Mr. 'amilton around?" he queried, actually hoping that he was not there.

"No, and we never know when 'e'll be here." She pointed a finger towards him. "I remember the days when you could set your time by when meals were served. Now?" she threw her hands up in exasperation, "'e's out all times of day and night, and then there's the telephone calls, in the middle of the night no less."

Bunter frowned. "Maybe he's with a lady?"

The woman shook her head then stopped. "Maybe. Who knows these days. No propriety or nothing." She paused, "Yet, I do remember seeing one lady a few times."

The moved deeper into the house. "What about his wife?" He's married, right?"

"Up in Norfolk with the youngens. He sent them there at the beginning of the War. I asked him why 'e sent them there when the King, God bless 'im, kept his still here, during the worst bombin' no less."

Bunter nodded, "I suspect it's the same reason why many others were sent away."

"True." She finally nodded. "Mister…"

"Bunter," he gave her a smile.

"Since you're here, why don't you come and grab a bite to eat. It's the least I can do since Mr. 'amilton's ain't here."

"Did he ever say where 'e were going?" Bunter followed her into the kitchen.

"Now that you asked, no." She shook her head.

Once he sat at the table the cook, who he surmised, placed a plate of food in front of him along with a glass of dark liquid. "'e was _supposed_ to have dinner." She looked up at the clock, "thirty minutes ago. At least the food won't be goin' to waste. It's no good when everyone's on rationin'."

Bunter smiled as he picked up the fork. This was one of the reasons why he didn't mind doing things for Lord Peter, although he rather enjoyed cooking for his family in the evenings. Hope actually liked it, especially when he'd bring her breakfast in bed. When Lord Peter first married, he soon found he was freed from those specific duties. When he married Hope, he was once again able to ply his culinary abilities but for her benefit alone.

"Do you know anything about the lady?" Bunter put the fork down and took a sip of his drink.

"Now that you mentioned it, there isn't much to tell. 'e'd go off with 'er in that three wheeled car of his, and gives 'er all sorts of gifts."

"Like what?"

"Wait here." She disappeared from the kitchen and returned a short time later. "This." She handed him a receipt and a picture of an obviously expensive bracelet of gold and silver.

Fingering the receipt, he wondered if he could pocket it for Lord Peter. The problem was that he would have to return it. "Does Mrs. Hamilton know of this?" He looked at where the bracelet was purchased and the total paid he paid for it. Bunter gave a low whistle at the £100 price. Not even Lady Peter would ask for something that extravagant.

"I don't think so. Poor lady. I don't know what'd she'd do if she found out of his dallying. And then there's the children." She shook her head. "Do you have any children, Mr. Bunter?"

Bunter blinked in surprised. "No." He hated lying, but there was no way out of it.

"Then you wouldn't understand."

"My brother has children, does that count?" he gave her a bit of a boyish grin.

"Maybe," she gave him an answering smile.

Bunter leaned near as if to speak of some tabooed subject. "I let my nephews raise all sorts of heck then send them back to him. Meredith's never been pleased with me."

Her smile grew large. "I like you, Mr. Bunter."

"Mervyn." He nodded.

"Edith."

They shook hands.

She looked to the package that lay on the side board.

"Were you expecting it?" Mervyn asked as he took another sip.

"Yes, but I'm not sure what's in it. 'e's been so secretive lately." Edith shook her head.

"Oh? Is 'e normally like this?"

"Yes, but not to this extent. Calls, then runs out in the middle of the night." She shook her head. "Are ye finished?" Edith nodded towards his now empty plate.

"Yes."

"Let me take that." She retrieved the plate and put it in the sink to be washed.

While she had her back turned, he pulled out a stub pencil and a piece of paper and wrote the name of the jeweler and the price of the bracelet down then slipped it back into his pocket. As she turned back, he gave her a smile. "I hate to cut this short," he signed, "but I do need to leave."

"It was nice meetin' you, Mervyn. It's also nice to be able to vent my frustrations about Mr. 'amilton."

"Oh, I understand completely." He gave her another smile and bowed his head. That last movement did the trick, causing her expression to dissolve into an impish smile. If he was sent back for more information he knew he would be able to get whatever he wanted or needed from her.

"You're always welcome 'ere at any time, Mervyn." She gave him another smile as they headed towards the servant's entrance.

"Thank you, Edith."

A bell rang from somewhere upstairs.

"Finally," she muttered. "I need to get Mr. 'amilton's meal ready. 'e's finally returned from wherever he was."

"And don't forget his package."

"Of course not."

Making it back to Audley Square, he called Peter and informed him of what he found. The aristocrat seemed genuinely excited when he mentioned the bracelet and the jeweler from where it was purchased.

TBC...


	15. Scene 15

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 15  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 15_

Charles Parker exited the car and headed towards the culvert on the far north side of London. Someone had called the police the day before reporting a body.

Reaching for branches to keep himself from slipping, he slowly worked his way down to the water. He encountered more branches and bits of stone and mud and rocks in a tangled mess within the cement tunnel before it dropped down into the sewers. The grating at the bottom was the only thing that kept the debris from disappearing underground.

The closer he neared, the stronger the stench of decaying flesh became. Reaching into his suit pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth. It was a trick he learned long ago to help strain out the now overwhelming stench. Several uniformed constables were in the process of pulling branches and other debris to the side to search for possible clues left behind.

There was no telling how long the body was under water. It was bloated and in the early stages of decomposition. The woman's dress was torn, as if caught on branches during her possible fall into the culvert. He looked up at the blue sky and considered the already rising late spring temperatures. No telling if or when a thunderstorm would come. For a moment he berated himself for not listening to the upcoming weather forecast, even though most of the time it wasn't all that reliable.

"Is there any form of identification?" Charles asked, voice muffled from his handkerchief. He pulled it away to see if he could deal with the stench by closing his nose and breathing out of his mouth. Within a few minutes it seemed to fade, either that or he had grown used to the smell. When he felt he would be fine, he stuffed the piece of cloth back into one of his pockets.

"We haven't found anything yet, sir." The constables pulled more branches aside until they reached the grating.

He hated it when there was nothing to give any indication of the victim's identity. It made his job all the more difficult.

Within a short time they were able to remove her body and take her back to the mortuary, hopefully to find out how and when she was killed, or even if she had been killed. She may have just slipped into the water by accident and drowned. It would be a damn shame if that happened. Yet sometimes those incidents were easier to reveal to the worried family members than if she were killed.

Just as they were reaching New Scotland Yard, Parker turned to one of the detectives under him, "Check to see if there are any missing women in and around the London area."

"It'll be bloody difficult with the war going on, you know that."

"Yes, I understand, but there could be a chance." He paused, "And check any of the current cases we're dealing with. There might be a connection."

The sergeant's eyes widened. "Are you ruddy serious, sir? Do you have any idea how many cases all of Scotland Yard is investigating?"

"Yes, I do Sergeant."

The detective muttered something while turning to leave.

"What was that, Sergeant?"

"Um…nothing sir." And he left the area.

Charles knew how difficult it would be searching for the name of a missing woman who hasn't been reported yet. He only hoped he would be able to find out her identity before it was too late.

A few days later they received a call from a detective from one of the Norfolk villages. It seems that one of their residents had traveled to London and had yet to return.

Parker picked up the phone and sent the call through, asking for the detective on the case. He had to placate the man because he thought New Scotland Yard would be taking over the case. They would, but not in the way they expected.

"What's the name of the missing woman?" He paused as he held his pen just above the paper. "Eleanor Hamilton, you say?" he repeated for confirmation. "What about husband and children? So he's in London? What other information do you have?" He continued to write, making appropriate sounds, until he slowed down and then stopped. "Has Mr. Hamilton been informed? Oh? I'll go and speak with him about this."

And with that he disconnected the line and looked at the address in front of him. It did strike him as odd that it was the same as where he sent Peter's servant the previous day. It made him wonder if the man was more involved in Foyle's murder investigation than what it seemed like.

Rising up from his chair, he left his office and headed towards the Hamilton residence. He had received word from Bunter that he wasn't in the residence when he delivered the package. Hopefully he would be today. If not, he'd travel to the man's office.

Which is where he ended up. The receptionist directed him towards the appropriate staircase. Once on the correct floor, he asked around again for Mr. Hamilton and then introduced himself.

"What can I do for you, Detective?" Hamilton stood up from behind the desk and moved around while extending his hand in greeting.

After taking it, Charles looked around the room and then let his eyes settle on the name plate on the desk: _Leslie Hamilton_. "I hate to be possibly the bearer of bad news, but it seems that your wife, Mrs. Hamilton never made it back to Norfolk."

"Eleanor?" Leslie's eyes widened in surprise. The man went over to a chair and sat down while shaking his head. "She was just here. When the other detective called I assumed she was staying with a few friends before heading back to our place in Norfolk."

"Do you have a photograph of her? That way we know who to look for. She might have just got lost on her way back."

Leslie shook his head. "No, she wouldn't have. We've traveled back and forth from Norfolk to London many times."

"The photograph?" Charles gently pressed.

"Oh, yes…If you could return this as soon as possible, I'd be grateful." Leslie got back to his feet and wandered over to his desk where he rummaged around for a few minutes. Finding what he was looking for, he handed it over. "It's the only picture of her that I have. The rest are in Norfolk."

"I see," Parker nodded.

"And if you could, let me know what you find, Detective?"

"Of course I will, Mr. Hamilton." Parker tucked the picture into an inside pocket.

And with that he left the office. Charles didn't look at the photograph until he reached the door that led to the outside. He pulled it out and examined it closely then placed it back into his pocket, not all that surprised that the the woman in the image and the one in the mortuary looked almost the same, all the way down to the dress she was wearing.

TBC...


	16. Scene 16

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 16  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 16_

"Sir, this is the third time we've been to London in so many days." Sam glanced towards him out of the corner of her eye.

"True." Foyle propped his elbow against the door so he could support his chin with his hand.

The blue skies that had graced the southern part of England for the past few days were replaced by clouds and the growing smell of rain. He hoped this new trip wouldn't take that long because he wanted to be back home before the rain started, that is if it rained.

"You never mentioned why we're on our way."

"There was another murder, and it's possibly connected with Miss Woollenhouse's murder."

Sam gave him a quick glance, eyes wide in surprise before turning her attention back to the road. "Do you think it was the same person who committed the murder?"

"Possibly." He paused, "Look Sam, I don't think it would be wise if you came with me to the mortuary."

"Mortuary? Why?"

"Detective Parker never said why. At this point I just don't think it'd be wise."

"I see." She nodded thoughtfully. "You know, sir, I've seen quite a few bodies since I've been driving you around."

"You can't say I didn't warn you," he muttered, yet loud enough for Sam to hear.

Over an hour later they pulled up to the offices of New Scotland Yard, and then left in another car for the mortuary which ended up being in the closest hospital. Sam still tagged along. Parker kept looking at her, looking somewhat confused at why she was with them then back to Christopher who only shook his head.

They walked down the severe corridor to several doors at the end. Written above the doors was _Mortuary._ Their goal.

Christopher gave Sam another long look then followed Parker into the room just beyond. The smell was a mixture of an astringent and decaying flesh. Sometimes he wondered if straight formaldehyde was any easier to deal with.

A man in a white coat, coroner's assistant most likely, stood over a body that was in the process of being autopsied. It didn't seem to be the one they were looking for.

"Mr. Harris, I have DCS Foyle from Hastings with me. He'd like to see the body that was brought in the previous day. Have you had a chance to look at it yet?"

Harris looked up and towards Foyle. His eyes trailed back to Sam who stood behind him. Her lips were pressed together tightly as she shied away from the gurney. "The one that was underwater for a bit?"

"Yes, that's the one," Parker nodded.

"Not yet. Would you still care to look at the body, Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher nodded. "Yes, I would."

Parker nudged him with an elbow and pulled out a photograph and handed it over. "Here. I retrieved this from Mr. Hamilton."

"Mr. Leslie Hamilton?" Foyle raised his eyebrows.

The edges of Parker's mouth quirked up. "The same one."

"Very interesting."

"I'd say so."

Christopher trailed behind the two men while studying the black and white image on the photograph. "Was she wearing the same dress when you found her?" He looked up just as the door to the cold storage locker was opened. They were hit the stench of the dead. He scrunched his nose up and breathed through his mouth until the overwhelming smell dissipated.

Hearing a cough from behind, Christopher turned. Sam stood there, her face an interesting shade between white and green. She slapped a hand over her mouth then ran from the room. For a moment, he was torn between checking to see if she was okay and wanting to see if the woman was Mrs. Hamilton.

For now, he decided he would stay. Turning back, he held up the photograph and looked to see if there were any characteristics that matched from the photograph to the body. Foyle had to admit that the victim did look a lot like the black and white image.

He handed the photograph back to Parker. "Why haven't you brought in Mr. Hamilton for identification?"

"Because I wanted you to take a look first, sir. There seemed to be too much of a coincidence in possibly finding her dead when you were already investigating Mr. Hamilton for something else." He frowned, "After you leave I'll have someone send for him. The inquest will be scheduled shortly thereafter."

"Good," Christopher nodded. "If I tell him, he might believe that either we're on to him, if he's guilty, or that it was some horrible coincidence, if he's not. I don't want him to know anything more that need be at this point in time." It struck him, for a moment, that his thoughts of Ericcson being the guilty party were fading and being replaced by Hamilton.

"That will be all, Mr. Harris." Both Parker and Foyle backed away to let the pathologist return the body back to its locker. That term just didn't seem right in Christopher's estimation, but it was the only one he could think of.

"Sir," Charles started as they headed for the corridor, "now that you've meet Peter, what do you think of him?"

That was an interesting question. Christopher pushed the door open. "I haven't made my decision on him. At least I don't have to wait on him hand and foot. Even if he is the son of a Duke, I refuse to do that."

"Come now, sir. He's not all that bad. Still, he's not the type of person to demand it. You should meet his valet. They have an interesting relationship that's altered because of the way society's changed since the Great War. Bunter at times seems almost like a relic of the past."

Christopher stopped, realizing that he had no idea where Sam went when she left the room in such a hurry. Escaped was more like it. He looked up and down the corridor and shook his head.

"Sir, who are you looking for?"

"My driver, Sa-Miss Stewart."

 _Where'd she go_? Near the end of the hall he found the door to the women's WC. Foyle looked around, frowning, then pushed the door open. The room beyond was set up a bit different than what he was used to. There were no urinals on the wall, just cubicles and on the other side were sinks to wash. In one of them he could hear the sound of retching and then a whimper.

"Sam?"

"Yes…."

She sounded miserable. Christopher refused to tell her that he had warned her. It would make him sound too vindictive, and he didn't want her to feel any more embarrassed than she probably already was. Plus, he wasn't like that.

"If it helps, I was the same way the first time I went to a mortuary."

He heard the lavatory flush, and the cubicle at the end open up. She seemed more flushed than anything else. At least it wasn't that greenish hue she had while in the post-mortem room. She gave him a bit of a shy look then went to one of the sinks and washed her hands. He opened his mouth to tell her he would drive and then shut it. When he did speak, what he said was different. "Well, we don't have to head back to Hastings right now. If you don't feel up to it we can stay in London overnight."

Sam shook her head, then rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. "No, sir. I can handle it. It's not that far."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She gave a resolute nod.

"Okay." He left the WC first and found Parker still waiting, looking somewhat uncomfortable.

The Detective cocked his head to the side. "Well?"

"She'll be okay." As if in answer to Foyle's comment, Sam reemerged into the corridor looking much better than before. Her flushed look was just about gone, though he suspected she'd have a queasy feeling for some time to come.

Exiting the hospital they were confronted with rain. Earlier the air smelled of it, and now the humidity had risen to something almost unbearable. They hurried to the waiting car for the short trip back to New Scotland Yard.

From there both, Sam and Foyle climbed into the Wolseley. She started the engine and then set the windshield wipers so she could see out the front. With their combined body heat the windows started fogging up.

"I hate it when this happens," Sam grumbled and then rolled down her side window about an inch. With her gauntlets, on she rubbed the inside of the windshield and then her side window. Taking her cue, Christopher did the same with his side.

It was late afternoon when they reached the main road that led south to Hastings. Once they passed the outer reaches of London, the amount of traffic on the road was reduced to almost nothing. The few cars in sight kicked up water, spraying it onto the windshields of the other vehicles present if they were close enough.

They overtook a slow moving lorry and pulled around the vehicle to pass it when it was safe. A short time later they both heard the sound of a car horn coming from behind them. Foyle looked over his shoulder to the following car, but he couldn't see who the driver was through the spray the Wolseley's tires kicked up. The car pulled up beside them, and he managed to catch a glimpse of the driver before it swerved towards them. Sam let out a short cry as she tried to pull away, but before they knew it they were off the road and headed straight for the trees.

Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as they skidded through the wet grass and mud then crashed through the trees. There was a loud crack as the windshield shattered, raining them with shards of glass. After what felt like an eternity they finally slowed to a stop. The car teetered as if on the edge of something but the weight of the engine pulled the front of the car down, dropping them into the stream below. They were both thrown forward, the steering wheel mercifully, if you could say that, kept Sam from going any further. Christopher didn't have that luxury. He hit the dash board and everything went black.

Christopher had no idea how long he was out. The first thing he seemed to perceive was the Wolseley's car horn as if from a great distance, and then the sound of gurgling water. _What?_ He brought his hand up to his head and found it wet below his trilby. Pulling it back he painfully focused on his fingers, trying to understand why they were red. _Blood?_

He shook his head, and that seemed to make everything explode. He let out a groan, squeezing his eyes shut, then was hit with nausea. No telling how long it took to wait that out. When he felt he could, he looked up. Tree branches were sticking through the space where the windshield once was. Shifting, he felt something pull and then a stab of pain in his left shoulder. It was at that time he realized he was pinned in place, and water was dripping onto him. He turned to look to his right and found Sam slumped against the steering wheel and her arm bent at an odd angle. Her face was cut from glass shards and blood seemed to be everywhere.

"Sam," his voice came out a horse whisper. Raising his arm he tried to reach towards her. The movement caused his vision to tunnel and he could feel himself descending into darkness.

 _I have to stay awake._ At the same time he wondered if it was truly the end. He reached over and felt her cheek; it was warm to the touch. At least she was alive, for now.

 _I love you, Sam. Why didn't I ever tell you,_ were his last thoughts before he succumbed to the darkness.

TBC...


	17. Scene 17

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 17  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

I'm busy this weekend, so you're getting the next scene early. Enjoy!

 _Scene 17_

Christopher would be proud of him, Peter mused while in the kitchen. Being raised privileged did have its perks, but he also knew the basics of cooking. At the same, time he was glad the same pressures that were placed on Gerald were never set on him. He knew that would change soon enough, and it was something he was not looking forward to. The worst part was that there was no way out of what was now his future.

What really bothered him was that he had no idea what society would be like when his oldest son, Bredan, ascended to the title. Peter always felt it a death sentence. "Maybe I should go by Death when Gerald dies?" he mused out loud. It would be rather humorous, especially when he would have to take his place in the House of Lords. "Lord Death," he said in a sotto voice.

Peter brought his breakfast over to the table and sat down. _I wonder when_ _…._ Christopher didn't exactly say how long he'd be in London, though he assumed it would be no more than a day. With the rain, he could see the detective wanting to wait it out before making the trip back south. _I wonder how Harriet and the boys are making out?_

He shook his head as he finished his breakfast then tidied up after himself. Yes, he was raised privileged, but he knew how to take care of himself. He vaguely recalled that his grandfather, the titled one, didn't know how to do anything for himself.

Wandering into the lounge, he looked over by the chair Christopher normally took for himself. Its back faced the front windows. The dark, heavy curtains were drawn aside letting in the bright morning sunlight. In a prominent place on the side table were two photograph frames. One showed an image of a lovely young woman, but her hair and clothing dated back to the 1920s. "I suspect you're Mrs. Foyle," he kept his voice soft, as if to give reverence to the departed. The other was of a young man in the same uniform his nephew wore before he was shot down in late 1940 and forever changed his fate.

Picking it up, he studied the young man's face for a short time before setting it back down, and then went over to the other chair that was across from the fireplace. On another table was a very familiar looking book. "So who's reading your book Domina?" He picked up the novel and fingered through it, making sure to keep the bookmark in place. Underneath it was another one, by Graeme Greene no less. Out of curiosity, he dropped into the chair and turned to the first chapter of the Greene novel. Peter couldn't concentrate though. He couldn't help but wonder once again why the detective accepted his help then refused to let him accompany him to London. Foyle went to London alone, well not exactly alone, but who's counting?

Peter dropped the book into his lap and started trying to figure out what exactly was going on, especially with what little information he was given. He suspected Christopher wasn't that forthcoming with the information he had. Maybe he should make an appearance at the station. _That would shock the constables_ , he mused.

There was a knock at the front door. Just as he was rising to his feet, someone unlocked it from the outside then opened it. "Christopher?" the voice that called was familiar. An even more familiar looking senior uniformed police officer turned and came into the lounge. His mind finally produced the name: _Hugh Reid._

"Oh, it's you."

"Mr. Foyle left yesterday for London and hasn't arrived back yet." Peter gave him a smile as he fingered the book.

"Both Mr. Foyle and Miss Stewart never showed up this morning. Did he call? It's not like him to not let at least someone know if he was delayed for some reason."

"No," Peter shook his head. "No telephone." Now he was getting a bit worried. He felt beastly at not even thinking that something was amiss. "I assumed that he had decided to stay in London because of yesterday's dreadful weather. I know," he stood, dropping the book onto the chair, "Let me call Charles, Detective Parker, to see what he knows."

Peter watched as Reid let his eyes sweep across the room before landing on him. The constable gave him a long look before finally nodding.

Peter went over to the bureau and picked up the telephone. He could tell that even though Reid was trying to hide it, he was very worried. "Hello, operator? Can you put me through to Detective Charles Parker at New Scotland Yard? Yes, I'll wait." He glanced out the window as the operator was putting the call through.

"Charles? Peter here. How's my namesake doing? I do hope he's not making too much of a fuss." He laughed at the answer. "I do have a question for you. Has Mr. Foyle left for Hastings yet? Oh really? Oh dear. I see. Look here, Charles, let me telephone Bunter then I'll ring you back."

"What is it?" Hugh came around the settee to stand in the lounge across from the fireplace.

Peter replaced the receiver on its hook. "They left for Hastings late yesterday afternoon."

Hugh turned on his heels and went straight for the door.

"Wait." Peter hated rushing, but that's what he did.

Hugh stopped in the entryway. "Better make it quick."

"If something has happened, I can ask Charles to start searching from London. I assume you will want your men to start from here."

Hugh gave him the barest of nods.

"Let me make two more telephone calls."

"Make it quick," Hugh repeated.

"As I can," Peter muttered as he went back to the telephone. The first one was to Bunter asking him to meet up with Charles, and the second was back to Charles telling him what they were planning. And with that he hung up the phone then went for his jacket. _What a way to meet the rest of Christopher_ _'s constables,_ he gave out a wry smile as he followed Hugh out of the house.

* * *

Bunter looked at the men that were standing nearby. It was unusual for him to see all these constables, and he amongst them. It made him feel very uncomfortable. Deep inside, he always had this sense that he didn't quite belong in this particular society. Give him the servants' quarters in any large house of the realm, and he felt at ease. Pull him out of it, and he was never quite sure what his duties were.

It didn't help that society was so very different from when he was a young man. He looked back to Parker and watched as the Detective gave orders to the men under his command. It was an interesting sight for him to behold, for he was so used to the detective doing what his Lordship asked of him. But this time his Lordship wasn't here.

One good thing that came out of his position was that he knew how to read both men and women. If there was one thing he could tell, it was that Parker was very worried. The man had just given out orders in a snappish sort of way for his constables to start looking for anything unusual when they made it past the southern part of London.

It was almost impossible to shut the entire stretch of road down to Hastings to conduct a proper sort of search for it was the only route that led to the town along with the southern part of Sussex. So, he had the constables do what they could. For they all knew that time was not on their side.

Something caught his eye as they passed a fork in the road. "Wait."

"Did you see something?" Charles asked as he pulled the car to a stop then backed the vehicle up until he was a short distance before the fork.

"There." Bunter pointed to a set of muddy tracks that lead straight to a line of trees that had an odd looking hole that seemed to be cut through them.

"That does look rather out of place."

"My thoughts exactly." Bunter climbed out of the car and walked carefully across the water logged ground to the tree line. He kept himself from walking in the tyre tracks while going through the trees. What looked like a short distance from the road ended up being much further than he expected.

Being careful, he used the low hanging branches to keep himself from slipping and falling. The grass and mud squelched with each step he took. About twenty paces into the trees, the tracks ended at what looked like a drop off. He moved as close as he dared to the edge to get a better look down below. There was a car on its side in the middle of the stream with broken tree branches all around it. Apparently it had dived into the running water nose first then fell onto its side.

Bunter's eyes widened. He turned too quickly and would have slid down into the stream if it hadn't been for the branch he was holding onto. Using even more caution, he worked his way back to the tree line. There he whistled and waved his arms to draw attention to himself.

Parker cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Did you find something?"

Bunter answered in kind, "Yes."

Several uniformed constables slipped and slided in Bunter's direction. When most had gathered next to the tree line, the valet led them deeper into the gloom until they reached the drop off.

It was Parker who gingerly climbed down to the waterline, but shortly thereafter several constables followed. Reaching the water, he dipped his hands in it to wash away the mud then wrung his hands before using his handkerchief to dry them the rest of the way. His shoes and socks and lower parts of his trousers became soaked in the running water as he splashed through the water to the car. Once there ducked down to look and then reach through the windshield.

Parker stood up and cupped his mouth with his hands. "Get an ambulance. It's them."

"Are they…." One of the constables couldn't quite voice the words they were all thinking.

The ones down in the water climbed back up the ridge. "For now," Parker shook his head. "I have no idea how. Mr. Foyle's pinned in by a tree branch, and Miss Stewart, it looks as though something might be wrong with her arm."

"Were they run off the road?"

It seemed straight forward enough and obvious to the asking constable, but Parker shot him an annoyed glance. "I will not make any assumptions until either one wakes. Then we can ask what happened." _That is if they wake._

When they reached the tree line, one constable jumped into a waiting car and took off down the road as fast as he dared. Help should soon be on its way. But, no telling how long it would be until the ambulance reached them.

"Mr. Parker, I would think it's best if we have them transported to the closest hospital to Hastings."

The detective gave Bunter a thoughtful look before finally nodding. "I think you're right."

TBC...


	18. Scene 18

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 18  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 18_

Christopher found himself standing just inside the ward where the very sick women were cared for. _Not again._ He closed his eyes, then opened them again. This had been a reoccurring nightmare for months after Rosalind had died, and there was nothing he could do about it. Looking around, everything in the room was as it had been back on that fateful day in 1932. The worst day of his life.

Half way down the hall was a very familiar looking bed. As if playing a moving picture, he made the long walk down the ward to one bed in particular. He even remembered the number of steps it took to reach his destination. Those same steps echoed loud in the room. Rosalind was in the end stages of the fever that ravaged her body, yet this time he could tell she was completely lucid. The last time he had this dream her eyes had been bright with fever and she had been mumbling nonsense. The scraping of the chair echoed loud in his mind as he pulled it next to the bed so he could sit down.

"Christopher, what is it?" she reached out, but stopped before she could touch him.

"You're dying, and there's nothing I can do about it." He squeezed his eyes shut, willing them not to water.

"It's the way of life. You know that. We live and we die. I feel blessed by God to have known you for this long."

He shook his head. "It's not fair. I don't want to lose you."

She gave him a long look. "Don't be afraid. The Lord gives and takes away. When you are ready He will have someone there for you. You have too much life left to live."

All color before him seemed to wash out, including Rosalind. The ward that was before him started changing. He soon found himself standing on the bank of the river he often fished at, yet the other side looked different. Shadowy figures stood there, waiting for something or someone. "Rosalind." He reached for her hand.

"No," she moved into the water, the edges of her dress now floating around her. "You must leave this place Christopher. It's not your time." The water rose and overtook him until he was drowning.

"Dad?" Andrew's voice seemed to come as if from a great distance. "Dad, wake up." This time he felt a hand on his arm and a shake. Pain shot through his shoulder and his eyes flew open when he realized he couldn't breath. Leaning over, he somehow gathered enough breath to hack and cough. A hand thumped on his back, and that action seemed to loosen some of the congestion. He was finally able to force the growing phlegm out of his throat and lungs and into his mouth where he could spit the greenish mess into a waiting pan below. Someone moved it away and he lay back down.

The coughing made Christopher's head feel like it would explode and all he wanted to do once more was sink down into that waiting blackness. He wheezed, trying to breath and coughed again while fighting to keep his eyes open. The whole ordeal was exhausting. Opening his mouth to speak, his eyes widened when he felt his stomach begin to revolt. Leaning back over, not caring even if there wasn't a pan below, he vomited out what little was in his stomach.

A nurse just happened to be there, kneeling with another pan ready to collect the now clear liquid. She placed a cool hand on the back of his neck then moved it around to his forehead below the bandage, feeling for a possible temperature. From there she gently eased him so he was once again laying on his back.

"Dad?" Andrew sounded both nervous and relieved at the same time. "Thank God you're awake. We've been worried about you."

Christopher fought to keep his eyes open, but the dizziness and pain stabbing behind his eyes was almost too much. "Where am I?" he wheezed. _Rosalind?_

"That's not a question we like to hear."

Christopher somehow managed to peer up at the authoritative sounding voice. It was one of the doctors that made the rounds. He had a clipboard in hand.

"Especially since you hit your your head pretty hard." He paused before continuing, "Who is the Prime Minister?"

Christopher looked back at him now confused. _Why?_

The doctor nodded as if he knew his confusion at the questions. "It's important that you answer me."

Christopher finally nodded, albeit slowly. "Churchill," he wheezed.

The doctor made a mark on the page he held. "And what do you do?"

"Police."

"Where do you live?"

"Hastings."

The doctor looked to Andrew who nodded. "It sounds like you're aware of your surroundings and can remember details. I'll check again tomorrow to see how you're recovering."

Christopher watched in fascination as the doctor moved to the next bed.

"Where am I?" he asked again, letting his eyes drift closed.

This time Andrew answered with a wry grin. "You're in hospital outside Hastings."

Christopher forced his eyes open again, but once again they tried to close on their own. He could feel sleep coming soon. Looking to the side he found Andrew sitting next to the bed, leaning towards him. His son glanced up and then back down.

"Aren't you supposed to be on base?" Christopher coughed again, trying to clear his throat and lungs.

Andrew didn't look the slightest bit put out. "I just got here about an hour ago. I was finally able to get 24 hours leave because…."

Even with him feeling terrible, cold fear seemed to seep through him. _Sam? What happened to her? Where is she?_ "Sam?"

"She's alive. I checked up on her before I came here."

 _Thank you, Lord_. He let his eyes close on their own volition as he took as deep a breath as he could. When he finally opened them back up, Andrew was replaced by Hugh.

The intense need for sleep wasn't as strong, but his stomach still felt like it would try to revolt on him again.

"You gave us quite a scare, Christopher." His chief super shook his head.

Christopher tried to take another deep breath. This time he found he didn't wheeze as much, and breathing seemed easier. "What happened?"

Hugh leaned back and folded his arms. "That's what we all want to know. Sam couldn't say much because she only caught a glimpse of the other car at the very last moment. Did you see anything?"

He furrowed his brow, trying to remember what happened, but the memories didn't seem to want to come because of his low grade headache. He shook his head slowly.

"I know you're trying to remember. Maybe you'll have better clarity tomorrow." Hugh stood up.

"Wait."

The uniformed officer sat back down.

"Where's Andrew?"

"He left a short time ago. He had to report back to his squadron."

Christopher felt confused. "I thought he just got here."

Hugh gave him a wry smile. "He's been here almost 24 hours. You woke up shortly after he arrived, and then went back to sleep."

 _A day? I lost a full day?_ He had to come to terms with that. Maybe it had something to do with him hitting his head. He wondered just how long he had been out since the accident, if it was one. "I see," he finally answered. "And…Sam? How is she?" He had to admit this is what worried him the most.

"She got banged up pretty good. I'm not sure who received the short end of the stick with your messed up shoulder and broken leg along with pneumonia to boot."

"Concussion?"

"That too," Hugh nodded his head.

"What about Sam?"

Hugh frowned. "Broken ribs from hitting the steering wheel and at least one broken arm along with a twisted knee and badly sprained ankle. The doctor wouldn't tell me much more."

 _Shoulder? Broken leg? Maybe that_ _'s why it's so difficult to move around._ Christopher moved first his right arm and then tried moving his left. Pain shot through his shoulder making him wince. An image floated up from somewhere of a branch sticking through the windshield. "There was a branch, I think."

"It pinned you in the Wolseley quite well. I suspect it kept you from being hurt any more. The medics had a devil of a time getting you out without hurting you anymore than you already were. I think they ended up cutting the branch, and removed it only when you arrived here." Hugh rubbed his hands together. "And then there's Lord Peter. The boys had no idea what to do with him."

Christopher gave him a wry grin, or at least what he thought of as one.

"Never seen Milner at a loss before. The constables tried to stop his Lordship from going into your office. It was an ungodly mess and no one knew where you were. I think at that point I was the only one that knew of his Lordship being here and helping you." He ran a hand through his hair, effectively mussing it up. "God Christopher, you can be maddeningly silent sometimes."

"Habit."

"It's one you need to break, especially since we're so short staffed."

It had been some time since Hugh gave him the what-for. He wasn't angry at the uniformed officer for venting his frustrations. Truth be told, he probably would have felt the same way if their positions were reversed. "What," he coughed and wheezed again, "about Mrs. Atwell. Has she found a place to stay yet?"

"Yes. I'm not saying I'm glad they're in their own place, but having another family under your roof when you've got your own can make things a bit tight."

Movement on the far side of the room and near the door caught Christopher's attention. A reverend came into the ward and was now looking around. His eyes narrowed then let a smile cross his face when he recognized the man.

"Who is it?" Hugh turned around and let his eyes settle on the clergyman then back to Foyle.

"It's Reverend Stewart." Even though he had been laying down the entire conversation Christopher felt his strength start to lag.

Hugh looked around again then turned back to Christopher with his eyebrow raised. "Sam's father?"

It took a moment for Christopher to remember that the rest of the station would have known who Sam's father was. "No, this is her uncle, Aubrey. Don't let him give you any of his wine."

"That bad, huh?" a twinkle appeared in Hugh's eye.

"Yup."

Hugh looked up then back down. "Listen, I've kept you awake long enough, and the nurse is on the prowl and most likely will want to make sure you get some more rest."

"Thanks Hugh."

The chief super gave him a smile and patted his arm. "The main thing is for you to get better. I'll make sure that Lord Peter gets the right file information. In fact I think I'll personally deliver everything to your house."

Instead of verbally answering, Christopher nodded and closed his eyes.

The chair scraped across the floor, just like in that dream and Hugh's footsteps faded away, only to be replaced by another set, and the chair scraping again. Christopher cracked one eye open to see who the new visitor was, and wasn't all that surprised to find Aubrey now sitting there. He was in his full vicar's suit with white collar. "Reverend," it came out more of a whisper.

"Never mind that." Aubrey waved his hand dismissively. "Call me Aubrey."

"Why are you here?"

Aubrey gave him a knowing look. "I saw your conversation with the constable. I won't be here long. I wanted to let you know that Sam's been worried about you. Never seen her like _that_ before." He shook his head.

 _Worried about me?_ "Why?"

"I have no idea. She was beside herself thinking that she had inadvertently killed you from the accident, then relieved beyond compare to find that you were still alive."

"It was…an accident…maybe…I'm not sure at the moment."

"I suspect you'll find out, or remember who it was soon enough."

"I hope so." Christopher closed his eyes once again.

A hand rested on his forehead, touching what felt were stitches and he could hear Aubrey mumbling something. For the life of him he couldn't understand what the man was saying before he slipped back into a much needed dreamless sleep.

TBC...


	19. Scene 19

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 19  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 19_

Aubrey Stewart made his way from the men's ward to the women's side with almost a bounce in his step. It was a good day when a friend survived a close call. And he considered Christopher Foyle a friend. It also helped that his lovely niece worked for him. It did bother him to see the detective injured as much as he was.

Iain had been worried out of his mind when he found out that his daughter was in an automobile accident. The only thing that kept him from collecting his daughter and bringing her back to Lyminster was his wife's health.

He pushed open the door and was hit with an astringent smell. They must have been cleaning once again. Working his way down the line of beds, he let his smile grow as he approached one in particular. It was indeed a good day, and one blessed by God.

"Uncle Aubrey?"

It also bothered him that Sam's voice sounded so weak. "How is my favorite niece today?" he asked as he sat down in an available chair.

She huffed in feigned annoyance then winced. "Uncle, I'm your only niece."

Aubrey answered with a smile. "Just like I said, how's my favorite niece doing?"

Sam rolled her eyes. "Just like last time. I'm still tired and sore and I hurt." With her good arm she rubbed her chest, wincing at the contact. She paused to catch her breath. "And…Mr. Foyle?" she seemed almost unsure of herself.

"He was awake earlier. It looks like he developed pneumonia."

Sam tried to push herself to a sitting position. Her eyes went wide and she let out a whimper of pain. With gentle care, Aubrey helped her lay back down.

"That wasn't a wise thing to do, young lady," he admonished.

"I know that now," she muttered with her eyes squeezed shut. Tears came out of the sides and dripped down to the pillow. "How," she finally spoke after what seemed like an eternity, "Did Mr. Foyle develop pneumonia?"

"Well, it had been raining when you crashed. I suspect being soaked for several hours was the reason why."

She turned away from him, eyes downcast and looking miserable and not just from the physical pain she was enduring at the moment. "It's my fault for all this. I should have stopped instead of swerving to miss the car."

Aubrey reached over and gently tilted her head so he could look at her in compassion. "Never try to second guess yourself. Plus, God is not in the business of second guesses. You and Detective Foyle survived the accident for a reason. God isn't done with you or Mr. Foyle by a long shot."

Sam sighed, "I know. Sometimes it's hard, especially now since he's always been such a brick about everything."

"He's older and has the wisdom that you will grow into." _Hopefully._

* * *

Peter looked around the ward. Because his sons were born at home, this was the first time he had been in a hospital, not counting the field hospital back during the Great War, and was for once unsure of himself. It was rare for him to feel this way. Even when he visited Harriet while she was on trial he never felt this way. Truth be told, he was more than eager to talk with her.

This was different.

He walked with purpose to his step until he reached Foyle's bedside. With the detective's forehead bandaged and his shoulder wrapped up, he looked miserable. Foyle was never that talkative to begin with and with him injured, he'd probably be even worse.

"Hello old chap," Peter gave him a smile and sat down in a waiting chair.

Christopher cracked one eye open as if to see who it was that was intruding on what little privacy he had.

"I see you're awake."

"I am now. What are you doing here?"

"Grumpy, I see." Peter paused, "Well, with you here I'll be taking over the investigation. The very same one you really haven't given me all that much information on. I do think it is rather rude that you haven't been sharing. You know, I've had to teach my boys to share. It makes things much more pleasant, don't you think?"

"Whatever." Christopher closed his eyes.

"Come now. Charles is much more accommodating when it comes to helping me with my cases."

"Charles?"

"Detective Parker."

Christopher seemed to harrumph. "Well, it's not your case."

Peter tried not to roll his eyes. "I seemed to remember while up in London you accepted my help."

"That's different."

Peter sat back. He wasn't really that angry with Christopher. He understood all too well that the senior detective was having a difficult time relinquishing control. "How, may I ask, will Miss Woollenhouse's murder be solved if you're convalescing either here or at your home?"

That seemed to do the trick.

Christopher sighed as if in capitulation. "Mr. Reid is sending over the case and file information."

Peter refused to rub his hands together in glee. Charles had never been like this, then again, when they first met he was already working on finding who snatched that emerald so many years ago. Was it really over twenty years past? "Don't worry old chap," he patted Christopher's arm, "I'll let you know everything that's happening."

"Right." Christopher looked to the opposite side of he ward.

"All this reminds me, where will Miss Stewart be staying? I'd rather not assume she will be leaving eventually for her father's vicarage."

Peter couldn't help but see something flash in Christopher's eyes.

"She already has a billet. It's also her decision wherever she ends up going."

Peter leaned back in the chair. "If I had a daughter and something like this happened to her, I wouldn't want her to leave my house until she was married."

Christopher looked away from him again.

"Which is what you think is going to happen to her, and you don't want that," Peter finished with a knowing look. "Listen, let me start on our murder and then we can see where everything leads us."

A short time later Peter went to check on Miss Stewart, who looked quite miserable, before leaving for Hastings.

Peter pulled his Daimler up and parked behind another vehicle that was in front of Foyle's house. He jumped out of the car, not even bothering to open the vehicle's door and climbed the steps to the house.

He had to admit, it felt rather odd first knocking and then reaching for the door knob. Before he could grasp the brass metalwork the door opened revealing Mr. Reid. "Did you bring the information?" he kept his voice businesslike as he entered the home and moved into the lounge area.

"Yes, my Lord," Hugh trailed after him. "It's on the dining table."

"I think I found it," Peter smiled as he headed towards the large table. Folders were spread across the flat surface. He sat down and picked up the closest one. "Is this all of them?"

"That I know of. Ch-Mr. Foyle knows more than he writes down."

"Isn't that like everyone?" Peter gave him a smile. Looking down he opened another folder and pulled out the coded letter. "Hullo, hullo, hullo. What have we here?"

"Let me see." Hugh came around and looked over Peter's shoulder. "It's some sort of code. I'm not at all familiar with things like this."

"It's definitely a cypher." Peter set it down on the table. "How long do you think they will be in hospital?"

Hugh came back around the table. "Not sure, my Lord. The doctors never did say."

"Whose file is this from?" Peter muttered as he looked at the folder. "Miss Woollenhouse?" he repeated the name on the folder. "Interesting." He propped his head on his hand and drummed his fingers on his cheek.

"Are you going to decipher the letter?"

"Oh, I will soon enough. I know someone in London who does this on a regular basis who works for the Foreign Office," Peter paused watching Reid closely. The man seemed very interested in what he was about to say. "But I won't be contacting him." He leaned back in the chair and this time drummed his fingers on the table. "I'm thinking of someone else whom I think is just as good, maybe even better."

"And whom might that be?"

Peter gave him an enigmatic smile.

"You're as bad as Christopher!" Hugh ran a hand through his hair then shook his head before turning away.

"I'm not contacting my Foreign Office friend because this could be connected with them. If it is, then…I think it would be good to talk to Mr. Foyle once more concerning this letter." Peter was about to slide the letter back into the folder when his eye caught the corner of the assurance policy.

"What's this?" Peter picked up the paper and read through it. "Oh my. Now this is very interesting. I wonder if he thought he could bring it off?"

"Bring what off?" Hugh approached the table once again.

Peter placed the sheet back on the table and tapped it with a finger. "If Mr. Hamilton was the one to make this assurance policy, he would have a very good reason to have Miss Woollenhouse killed, all £100,000."

"One hundred thousand?" Hugh gave a low whistle.

"Yes, it's amazing what people will do for a quid. And the more the better."

"Yes, I believe I understand. Yet, I've never come across something like this before." Hugh indicated the paperwork.

"Neither have I." Peter drummed his fingers on the table.

TBC...


	20. Scene 20

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 20  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 20_

For once Peter sat in Christopher's chair tapping a finger to his lips. Hugh Reid had long since gone, leaving the house quiet. He swore he could hear the oceans waves from inside, but at the same time he knew it was impossible. The house was too far away from the water. He still debated on whether or not to invite Harriet down from Hertfordshire. The problem was, this was Foyle's home and he was only here out of the kindness of the detective's heart. Maybe he should go ahead and check the local hotel to see if any rooms had come available. If so, then his problem was solved. He turned to look at the bureau and the telephone on the flat surface.

Peter knew he shouldn't be this indecisive. He had never been like this. He wondered if it was because of the accident Foyle and his driver were in. They were lucky to be alive.

"I'm in control of this investigation now," Peter muttered then stood up. If he wanted Harriet nearby, then he'd invite her down. He reached for the receiver as he sat down at the bureau and tapped the hook several times to let the operator know he wanted a dedicated line. "Hullo, operator? Can you place a call to Talboys in Hertfordshire? Of course I'll wait."

" _Hullo?"_

"Domina? How are the boys?" Peter played with a pencil, maneuvering it around his fingers.

" _They miss you Peter, and so do I."_

He could hear the emotions in her voice across the line. "Then how about a bit of a vacation down on the Sussex coast in a picturesque little town called Hastings?"

" _Hastings? Isn't that where you are?"_

"Yes, it is, Harriet. What say you?"

" _I'd love to, but what about the boys? I don't think there'll be room for all of us."_

Peter knew she was right. He looked around the ground floor of the house. He did have to admit that it was a very nice house. "No I don't think so either."

" _Well, if you still want me down there, how about I ask Mary and Charles to watch the boys? I'm not sure if they have the room in London."_

"Then why not have Polly bring her children up to Talboys? I wouldn't mind them staying for the duration while you're down here."

" _That's a wonderful idea. I'll let Mary know. As soon as she and her children are here I'll give you a ring. Which reminds me, what room are you renting from the local hotel?"_

"I'm not in a hotel, Domina. I'm staying with the lead detective at his house." He parted the curtains and looked out to the street.

" _Are you sure there's enough room?"_

"Quite sure." He rattled off the telephone number then continued, "If that doesn't work, then have the operator call Detective Foyle's house in Hastings."

" _I see. I shall talk to you soon."_

"Same here, Domina. Give the boys my love, and tell them I will be home sooner than they realize." And he hung up the phone. Hearing her voice made him acutely aware of how lonely he was without her presence nearby.

He rubbed his hands together then decided to go for a walk down at the beach. It turned out to be a very lovely day. The only thing that marred the picturesque sight of the town was the rubble of several destroyed buildings. The local police and AFS had done a wonderful job clearing away the rubble that filled the narrow streets before they could get any worse. Ivy grew up stone walls and turfs of grass peeked out between rocks in side streets that were still cobbled.

After passing several ancient parish churches, Peter swung his cane back and forth as he finally reached the street across from the beach itself. To the east he could see on a hill the remnants of a castle from the Middle ages. He debated on whether or not to visit the place once Harriet could make her way down. In the end it would be her choice. She did seem to like the pile of rock that was called Duke's Denver.

Leaning on his cane, Peter looked over the beach and to the water. He was acutely aware that this is where Miss Woollenhouse's body washed up on the shore less than a fortnight ago. His eyes swung towards the fishing boats that were beached. The fishermen were obviously working on their nets, getting them ready for the next day's fishing. And then there was the coded letter. He was really looking forward to having both him and Harriet take a crack at it. If it was the Playfair cipher then it shouldn't be all that difficult to decipher. All it would take is a little time and patience.

Voices caught his attention. Turning he could see several men in uniform "cutting up" as the Americans would say on occasion. The way the Americans used the English language was down right vulgar in his estimation.

Once the soldiers passed him, he walked across the street and to a car park that had a ledge above the beach. He rested his arms against the top of the wall and looked down to the blue waters of the Channel. The water was quite lovely compared to the Thames. Except for the large anti-aircraft weapons placed at regular intervals down the beach you would never know they were at war.

* * *

Harriett looked out the window to the garden beyond and the grassy mound in clear view. Luckily they hadn't needed to use the bomb shelter just yet being this far away from the coast and London. Yet, Peter was wanting her to come and join him. It's not that it was far away, but Hastings always seemed the first stop for the Luftwaffe on their way to London or wherever they were sent.

She turned her attention back to the notebook before her and the half-hearted scribbles it recorded. She still hadn't been able to come up with a decent idea for her next Templeton mystery. Maybe it was the war, she reasoned. She only hoped that things would settle down and the muse would return to her so she could write more mysteries for Templeton to solve.

The phone gave out a strident ring making Harriet jump. "Hullo," she hoped she didn't sound too startled. Her face brightened at the voice on the other end, "Mary, how are things in London?"

" _The same. How are the children?"_

"They're fine." Harriet nodded. "You did call at the most opportune time."

" _Oh?"_ Mary's voice sounded guarded.

"And it's nothing to worry about. Peter is down in Hastings and has invited me to come join him. Would you be so kind as to watch the boys? You can bring yours up to Talboys and stay until either I or the both of us return." She didn't exactly cross her fingers, but it was close. If Peter asked her to join him, then he though she could be of help in what he was doing.

Mary seemed to muse for a moment. _"I wonder if it's one of the cases that Charles is working on."_

"It could be. Mary, let me know when you make your decision."

" _Of course I will."_

And with that she ended the call. At least Mary seemed receptive. Sometimes she didn't know what to think of Peter's sister. If there was one thing, though she knew that the dowager Duchess fully approved of her marriage to Peter, and that was all that mattered, especially for Peter.

"Mama?"

Harriet turned to her oldest. "Yes Bredan?"

The not quite 6-year-old child had a paper in hand and came up and handed it to her. "I thought you could use this for your story."

"My story?" She took the paper. "Let me see what you have here." It was a crude image of two men drawn with crayons with grey lines in front of one of them.

"It's Uncle Charles putting a bad guy in gaol."

"Why thank you. And you know it just might help me with my next story." She smiled and reached out and ruffled the tow-headed boy's hair. Breden's hair color was a slightly different shade from Peter's, but at that moment he looked so much like his father that it nearly brought her to tears.

"Are you okay, Mama?"

"I'm fine. Have no fear." She pulled him into her arms and gave him a hug then kissed his hair. What saddened her was that as he grew he would eventually pull away from her and not let her hold him like this anymore.

TBC...


	21. Scene 21

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 21  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 21_

Christopher sighed as he folded his good arm to rest on his chest. He had to admit that most of the time while awake he was bored out of his mind. No one even thought to bring him a book to occupy his time. He felt his skin began to crawl under his cast and then develop into a full blown itch. Frowning, tried to shift the weighted limb, but that didn't work. Then he reached down and tried to slip a finger between the cast and his leg. A shadow moved past him. He had grown adept at ignoring the movement all around him.

"Mr. Foyle, is it itching?"

He looked up to the nurse. She stood at the foot of his bed with a clipboard in hand. "Yes."

She smiled. "That is a very good sign. It means that your leg is healing."

"It still itches. And the shoulder hurts." He frowned. "Nurse, is there a library on the premises?"

"We have a catalog of all our books. Would you like to see it?"

"Yes, please." He rested his head against the pillow and closed his eyes. At least his headaches had dissipated to almost nothing. It was not pleasant to need to retch every time he opened his eyes. One of the doctors had mentioned that the branch that messed up his shoulder kept him from being concussed anymore than he already was. Christopher wasn't sure if that was good thing or not.

"Damn Christopher. You look like shit. what happened to you?"

Foyle looked towards John Kiefer. The American Captain stood there with his hat in hand, obviously giving him the once over.

"Got run off the road."

"You weren't driving were you?" John moved closer and eventually sat down in the available chair.

"No." Christopher raised his good arm up to rub the bandage that was wrapped around his head with the heel of his hand. "I was investigating a murder."

"Sounds like the murderer didn't want to be captured."

Christopher tilted his head back and forth thinking about what the American had said. "Maybe. I'm not certain."

"How's your driver. It's still Miss Stewart, right?"

"Yes."

"Was she injured?"

"Yes, though I don't know whose worse."

"Mr. Foyle?" The nurse returned and held out a piece of paper.

"Thank you." He took it and read down the list. There wasn't that much available. It reminded him of when he first brought Paul on as his sergeant. "Do you have anything by Graham Greene?" he asked as he handed it back.

"No, and I'm sorry about that. We've had quite a few requests for his work. I'll see if I can find something similar."

"Never heard of Greene." John shook his head as the nurse left. "What did he write?"

" _Brighton Rock._ It's quite good. You should read it sometime."

John gave him a lopsided grin. "I don't have the time. I had to request this off so I could visit you once I heard you were in the hospital. You wouldn't believe how swamped we are getting ready for…."

"Oh, I do understand." Christopher chewed on his bottom lip, unsure of what to tell the American. "I was in the Great War. Worst three years of my entire life."

John shook his head. "From what I heard from the older fellows when I up and joined, I can understand. Yet quite a few of my boys signed up the day after Pearl Harbor. They didn't need any _incentives_."

"Pearl Harbor?"

"Yeah, damn worst day for our Navy. The Japs took out almost the entire Pacific Fleet in one fell swoop."

Foyle shook his head. "I should have known that." He paused, "Not saying anything bad about what happened to your fleet, I'm very glad you and your chaps are here."

John gave a rather embarrassed smile. He glanced at his watch. "I hate to say this, but I gotta get. My CO will tell me I've wasted enough time here gabbing with you. Plus I gotta meet with the USO to get everything set up for the boy's moral boost." He stood up. "I would reach out my hand, but your shoulder looked to be banged up good. If I can, I'll stop by sometime in the near future. Bring you some more bourbon and we can do a bit of fishing."

For once Christopher smiled. "Sounds good."

"And don't go running off the road. It's bad for your health."

John left and was eventually replaced by the nurse with a book in hand. "I'm sorry, Mr. Foyle, but it's the best I could do." She handed him an Agatha Christi novel. He took it without question. Even though he knew who the murderer would be by the end of the first paragraph, it would at least keep him occupied for the time being. Maybe if Peter came by he could bring Greene's book.

Christopher dropped the book onto his lap and rested his head against the pillow while closing his eyes. Taking too deep a breath it triggered a coughing spasm, which only made him even more sore and worn out at the same time. At least he could breath comfortably once again. When he tried to think of Rosalind, all he could see was Sam slumped against the steering wheel of the Wolseley. _Sam._

He wanted to see her, but he wasn't sure he would be allowed in her ward, especially since he was still recovering from pneumonia of all things. Christopher felt someone remove the book from his lap and ease him back down with gentle care. "Sam," he muttered.

The nurse answered, her voice soft so as to not disturb the other patients. "You need to rest, Mr. Foyle. You shall get to see her soon enough."

When he opened his eyes once again it seemed more towards evening. Black out curtains were already in place. _How long have I been asleep?_ He tired so easily, it also made him wonder if he had the strength to go visit Sam. And then there were the times he had to go to the bathroom. The first time he felt mortified that he had to actually be helped. If there was one thing, he would make sure that he had the strength to take care of those daily routines without a nurse hovering nearby making sure he wouldn't topple over and fall down.

"Nurse?" he kept his voice low, but loud enough for the woman to hear him.

She came over with a smile. "How are you feeling, Mr. Foyle?"

"I would like to visit the woman who was brought in with me at the same time. Sam Stewart." Actually he wanted to see her.

"Let me talk to the nurse over the women's ward to see if she's strong enough." And she made her way to the door.

Sometime later the nurse reappeared with a smile on her face. "Good news, Mr. Foyle. Just to make sure I talked to the doctor about your pneumonia. The sulfa has done it's job and you're not contagious anymore, which is a blessing. And Miss Stewart has been asking for you."

"She has?" His eyes widened in surprise.

"Apparently she thought you were dead when she was first brought in." The nurse came up to his side and helped him into a seated position. "As soon as tomorrow we should be able to get you into a chair and have you go visit her."

Christopher nodded. "I remember hearing about that."

It took a moment for him to wonder why he'd be in a chair, that was until his leg started itching once again.

Which is where he found himself the next day. Two nurses helped him into the chair, which wore him out more than he expected and they moved him from the men's ward to the women's side. Only about half the beds were currently occupied, which could either be a blessing or a curse either way you took it.

Somehow the nurses understood that he didn't wish to remain in the wheelchair, so they brought him to her right side. With minimal help, he managed to sit on that side of the bed and faced her. The dip of the mattress woke her up and she blinked sleepily at him. "S-sir?"

Christopher looked over her. She did look worse than him, but at the same time he wondered if it was more cosmetic than anything else. "It's good to see you awake." He smiled. "The last time I saw you, you were slumped against the steering wheel." He shook his head, trying to banish the images from his mind.

Sam rubbed her chest with her good arm and winced. "The doctor told me I have broken ribs." She turned away and sniffed.

"What is it, Sam?"

"It's my fault for all this," she sniffed again, trying not to cry. "If only I stopped, none of this would have happened."

"Sam." Christopher closed his eyes for a moment. When she didn't seem to hear, he spoke again, "Samantha, listen to me."

She finally turned, her dark eyes seemingly bright with unshed tears.

"Even if you did stop it wouldn't have worked. The driver was out to kill us. It's not your fault." With his good arm he reached down and cupped her face. Then brought it down to cover her hand where he felt what he thought of as a not so entirely unwelcome jolt. His reasoning was that he was trying to make her feel better.

"But it is. I felt so horrible and thought they would send me back to Father's when I didn't want to go. I didn't know what to do seeing that I loved you and now you were gone," she babbled looking in every direction but towards Foyle.

 _What?_

Several moments passed then she realized what she said and pulled her hand away from his and covered her mouth in horror. "Mr. Foyle, I am so sorry. I didn't mean what I said." She looked completely mortified.

"Sam."

"You can send me back to the MTC, even back to Lyminster."

"Sam, listen to me."

She finally dragged her eyes in his direction.

He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. The worst part was that he was in no position to respond to her comments the way he wanted to. "We both went through a traumatic experience that can trigger certain things that were never spoken about before. I will not send you away because I can't go anywhere without you."

Sam gave him a trembling smile.

TBC...


	22. Scene 22

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 22  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 22_

Charles Parker was worried about Foyle, but he couldn't dwell on those thoughts for he had a crime he had to solve, and that was the yet to be identified woman found in the culvert. He climbed out of his car and stood before the building that held the War Department. There were reserved parking spaces out front and for once he was able to use one of those for official business. Anything the Met Police did he saw as official. He put a sign on the inside of the windshield stating that it was a police vehicle on police business and started the long trek up to the building. Hopefully the initial meeting wouldn't take that long and they would be back outside and on their way to the mortuary.

He did find it rather coincidental that Foyle just happened to be removed temporarily from the investigation. How would the man they're chasing know about Foyle's recent travels to London?

Stepping inside the building Charles walked past the receptionist on the way to the stairs. Stopping would only make the trip longer, plus it wasn't that long ago since he was here. Slipping a hand into his pocket, he checked to make sure the photograph of Mrs. Hamilton was still in place.

"Mr. Hamilton?" he spoke as he was escorted into the man's office. The one in question looked tired, but Charles wasn't sure why.

Hamilton straightened in his chair, but didn't rise to his feet. "Detective Parker? Are you here to return the photograph of my wife?"

"Yes." Charles neared the desk while reaching into his pocket to retrieve it, then handed it over, "along with having you accompany me."

Leslie's eyes grew wide and he leaned back. "Why?"

 _Interesting._ "I am sorry to say that we think we might have found your wife. I'd like for you to accompany me to the mortuary to see if you can identify the body we've found."

"Uh…of course." Leslie shook his head. "Are you sure it's her?"

"No, that's why we want someone who possibly knew the victim to make the formal identification. If she is your wife, the inquest will be scheduled in a few days. We would urge you to attend it so you can ask your own questions about what happened."

"Y-yes." Leslie nodded while trying to gather his things. He seemed truly in shock. Either that, Charles mused, or he was one damn fine actor. Eventually taking pity on the man, he retrieved Leslie's overcoat, though it really wasn't needed outside along with his gas mask and hat.

They reached the door that lead to the outside and Parker held it open for Hamilton. "You can call for a cab after we're finished."

Leslie shook his head. "I think I just might."

It didn't take that long to drive the distance from the War Department to the mortuary connected with New Scotland Yard.

They walked down the corridor that Charles had recently traveled with Foyle. Just the knowledge that the detective had survived the accident and was now on the mend gave him a great amount of relief. He looked to the man beside him. Hamilton had remained quiet on their trip to the hospital all the way until now. Maybe he was still in shock. He had dealt with these issues so many times over the years that he'd come to see that everyone views the death of a loved one in different ways. Some spew out their emotions while others freeze them out.

They stopped at the doors and Charles handed him a handkerchief. "Put this over your nose and mouth just in case."

"Why?"

"Just do it." He was beginning to get irritated with the man, though he had no idea why.

Leslie finally nodded and placed the material against his nose and mouth. Nodding, Charles opened the door into the mortuary. Luckily the body that was on the table when Foyle was here, wasn't there anymore. Mr. Harris was at his desk working on something. Now the room had just an astringent smell to it.

"Can I remove this?" Leslie's voice was muffled.

"Yes." Charles continued as the man handed him back the handkerchief, "I did it because the smell can be overwhelming to someone who has never been here before." He turned back around and waited for Mr. Harris, to finish his paperwork.

The coroner looked up after a few minutes and smiled while standing up. "What can I do for you Detective Parker?"

"The female that was brought in here several days ago, I have Mr. Leslie Hamilton here who might be able to identify her."

Harris looked over to the man with compassion. "Of course. This way." He led the way to the opposite side of the room to the rows of storage lockers. When they neared, Charles handed Hamilton the handkerchief once again.

There was a pop and a hiss. At least they weren't hit with the stench of the dead, either that or he was so used to it that it didn't bother him anymore. Harris pulled the bed out and unzipped the bag the body had been placed in. "Mr. Hamilton, I know this is difficult for you, but I do need to know if this is your wife."

Hamilton split his gaze between both Parker and Harris before finally approaching the rack. His eyes widened and then he closed them tightly as he backed away.

"Do you recognize her, Mr. Hamilton?" Parker asked, watching the man closely.

"Yes. It's her," came out almost as a sob.

"Who is it?" Parker indicated that the woman's body should be placed back in the locker for now.

"Who did this to you Eleanor?" Leslie shook his head. He ran a hand through his hair, yet at the same time it wasn't shaking. Parker thought the actions seemed rather odd.

With a nod to the coroner, Parker escorted Hamilton out of the mortuary and eventually to the outside. "What is your address?" he asked as they climbed into the vehicle.

"Are you driving me home?"

"It's the least I can do. This way I know you've made it back safely. You've had a bit of a bad shock and I thought it best." Parker did feel bad for the man, even if he was doing a bang up job with acting, for it was his wife that was found murdered.

"Thank you, I think." Hamilton gave him an uncertain look before finally giving him his home address.

After Parker dropped Hamilton off, he went back to his office at New Scotland Yard to think. He put his thoughts down on a clean sheet of paper hoping that it would help him organize everything before he called down to Hastings to speak with Peter. He picked up the phone and was about to call when he set it back down. "Damn. That's the one thing I forgot to do." He drummed his fingers on his desk, not sure who he should call. _Maybe call the station?_

Thinking that was the best he could do, he placed the call, hoping he could reach Peter in at least one way.

" _Hastings Police Station."_

"Yes, I'm Detective Superintendent Parker at New Scotland Yard. I need to speak with DCS Foyle, but I know he's not in."

" _Sir, we have Detective Sergeant Milner or Chief Superintendent Reid. Maybe one of them can help you?"_

Charles thought for a moment. He hadn't met Detective Milner yet, or maybe he had. What he did know was that he had met the senior uniformed officer. "Could you put Mr. Reid through?" He leaned back in his chair, hoping this was the right move to make.

It didn't take long before a new voice came on the line. _"Reid here."_

"Mr. Reid, this is Detective Parker at New Scotland Yard. I need to reach Lord Peter Wimsey, but I'm not sure where he is."

" _Sure, he's taken over the Woollenhouse murder since Ch-Mr. Foyle is still in hospital."_

"How can I reach him?"

" _Apparently there were no rooms to let at the hotel, so he's staying for the time being with Mr. Foyle. Let me get you his telephone number…better yet, give me yours and I can have someone run over and have his Lordship call you."_

"I don't have any problems with that." And with that Charles gave the officer his direct telephone number.

About thirty minutes later his telephone rang. "Detective Parker."

" _Hullo Charles."_

"Peter, how are things progressing in Hastings?"

" _Quite well so far. Found some rather interesting things in the files Mr. Foyle had built on several of the possible suspects. But I feel that's not the reason why you're telephoning me."_

"No, it's not. We had a murder up here last week. It turns out it's Mrs. Eleanor Hamilton."

" _Good Lord. Not our Mr. Hamilton's wife?"_

"The one and the same. And what else was interesting was that he did a good showing of being the shocked husband, but there was something wrong at the same time. He didn't follow through with all the actions a man in his position would have done."

" _Like what?"_

"His physical actions were too calm. It was almost as if he knew she was dead, but was trying to put on a show for my benefit."

" _And how was the show?"_

"He could be a fine actor if he wanted to be one."

TBC...


	23. Scene 23

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 23  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 23_

Harriet looked out the window of her train seat and watched as the landscape flowed by. The rocking motion had a relaxing effect on her and she found her mind wandering, both thinking about Peter and what lay in store for her once she reached Hastings, and how the boys would do without her for who knows how long. They should be fine, she kept repeating to herself.

She let her mind wonder about why Peter had invited her. Even though he let her do a lot of things by herself, there were still some things that reminded her of his Victorian upbringing. He wanted her and the boys safe, and if that meant them living in Hertfordshire, then so be it. At least this didn't come up that often, yet it became more prominent the farther the war dragged on.

Mary had the same upbringing, but she still had communist leanings. How Detective Parker won her over she had no idea. For the two were already married by the time she met them.

" _Next stop, Hastings."_

Harriet looked up to the loudspeaker, then went to gather her things. Peter had told her that he'd be waiting for her at the station. She would hold him to that. He hadn't broken a promise yet.

Once she was on the platform she set her suitcase down and looked around. It was warmer here on the coast than up in Hertfordshire. She wondered if it was because of the sun. She banished the thoughts from her mind when she spied the very familiar visage of her husband of almost eight years. Had it already been that long? At the moment he was turned away from her. She was able to take a closer look at the lines of his face. He was calm, yet there was something else she could see. She finally decided that it was eagerness. Eagerness that she would be joining him. It made her smile.

Picking up her bag, she made her way down the platform to where he was. "Peter?" she called.

Peter whirled around, looking every which way until he finally laid his eyes on her. His grey eyes brightened and a smile played across his face as he strolled towards her with his hands in his trouser pockets. "Welcome to Hastings, Domina." He leaned over and took the bag from her then reached for her hand with his free one.

"So, are you going to show me around?" She reached over and placed her free hand on his arm as they moved to the staircase that led down to the ground.

"If you like."

Once they were on the ground level, they slowly made their way to the car park in the late afternoon sun.

"It's a lovely day," Harriet mused as she slid into front passenger seat of the Daimler.

"Yes, it is. How about a stroll down near the beach? Maybe see the castle, or at least what's left of it?"

Harriet turned to look at Peter. He was smiling as he started the engine and put the car in gear.

"How about after getting a bite to eat?"

"Of course, my dear."

Harriet was very interested in what Hastings looked like. The only other sea town she had any experience with was Seahampton.

"Domina, this town is nothing like Seahampton."

She looked at him. How on earth did he know what she was thinking? She opened her mouth then closed it. "Well, I should hope not. I don't think I would like to visit that place again."

"Not because of that poor soul who was killed on the beach?"

"Maybe." She looked back to the world that was passing on her side of the vehicle. They were now driving along the coast. Between the road and the beach were the anti-aircraft gun emplacements. "How often does Hastings…"

"Receive gifts from the Luftwaffe? My first night here wasn't that enjoyable."

"Bombs?" Her eyes widened, now wondering just why she let Peter talk her into joining him.

"Yes, but have no fear my dear. Mr. Foyle does have an Anderson in his back garden. I assure you, it does serve its purpose quite well." He reached over and grasped her hand once again. As of their own will, their fingers intertwined.

"So, where is Mr. Foyle? Is he at the police station?"

Peter frowned. "Actually no, Harriet. It turns out he and his driver were run off the road on their way back from London."

That was not what Harriet was hoping to hear. "I hope he's all right."

"He will be. They got banged up quite a bit." He finally pulled into a narrow street with houses on one side and small businesses on the other. "Here we are." He stopped in front of a whitewashed house on the corner with the number 31 on its door.

Harriet climbed out of the Daimler and looked up to the house. "This is a lovely house, don't you think?"

"Very much so." Peter pulled her suitcase out of the Daimler's boot and climbed the steps. Reaching the door he retrieved a key and unlocked it. "Welcome to chez Foyle."

They divested themselves of overcoats and hats before making their way into the lounge. "You're certain there's enough room?"

"Of course, my dear Harriet."

She moved into the lounge and towards the bureau where the telephone rested. On a table next to a chair were several framed photographs. She looked at them before turning back to Peter. "So where are we to sleep?"

"This way." Peter retrieved her suitcase and they climbed the stairs. Even though he had only been to the first floor, he had seen several times the stairs that led to the next one. Just from the outside he had a pretty good idea there'd be more rooms.

"Right now I'm sleeping in his son's room on the first floor." Once they reached the landing of the second floor there were two doors before him that were closed. He opened one and found it to be an art studio. It also looked as if it hadn't been touched in some time even though it was clean. That meant the other room surely had to have a bed in it.

He was right. The room was quite large. It had a bed in it, but like the studio it looked to not have been used for some time.

"Is this a guest room?" Harriet took a step into it.

"He never said." Peter shook his head as he set her case down.

"Oh look, photographs." She went to the closest wall and looked at the pictures that were on prominent display. The largest one was an oval image that dated back to the Great War. It was a wedding photograph of a young man in uniform and the bride looked to be quite young. Next to that one was another where the newlyweds were surrounded by more individuals, family members she supposed.

"Good Lord, is that Admiral Howard?" Peter came up beside her and looked at the image, his grey eyes bright.

The man in the navy uniform that stood beside the bride had a much lower rank than Admiral, but it did look like him.

"I'm not sure. I don't ever remember meeting him." Harriet shook her head.

Peter gave the images a thoughtful look. "I remember when Admiral Howard's younger sister died. At that time I wasn't in any position to come to the funeral. All I knew was that her husband's name was Christopher. I never realized who it was she married."

"I would think that Mr. Foyle could tell us more when he returns home."

"Of course." Peter took her hand and led her back down to the ground floor. "How about a walk by the beach? I've already been down there and it's quite lovely this time of year."

TBC...


	24. Scene 24

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 24  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 24_

Reduced to reading Agatha Christi, Christopher sighed and bent his good leg so he could prop the book against it. He was finding very quickly that not having two good arms made things rather awkward. At least it wasn't his right hand. He had no idea what he'd do if he couldn't write.

He sighed again as he turned the page. The story was rather boring, and he knew who the guilty party was, but it was something to do. At least his headaches had all but disappeared.

Leaning back, he rested his head against the bed frame and sighed. He had no idea what to do about Sam. Just the knowledge that she harbored the same feelings was both a blessing and a curse. The worst part about it was that he was in no place to speak or act on his own. He was her superior and under his care. He had seen others take advantage of similar situations and have it blow up in their face. That was something he did not want happening. He wondered if that was what started Hamilton's affair with Miss Woollenhouse.

"Mr. Foyle?"

Christopher looked up and found Hilda Pierce standing at the foot of the bed with her walking stick in hand.

"Why are you here?" He closed the book, but kept his finger in place for the time being.

She took a few steps forward then sat down in the available chair. He wondered if it was so she could have a better vantage point of looking him over. "I see you're on the mend."

"Yes."

Hilda gave him a long look before continuing, "Mr. Foyle, Miss Woollenhouse had a letter. I want it."

 _Letter?_ It took him a moment before he realized what she was demanding. "Letter?" He nodded while frowning. "Maybe I have it. What's so important about it?"

"If I tell you why, will you back off and let us take care of everything?"

"After being run off the road?"

She waved her hand as if dismissing it, "Collateral damage."

Christopher's eyes widened in shock. _Was MI5 responsible for this?_ He pressed his lips together as he narrowed his look. "Collateral damage? I was almost killed, not to mention my driver, and _you_ call it collateral damage?"

"It's to be expected. We are all expendable."

"Well, I'm sorry to inform you but I don't think so." He was almost of mind to not give her the letter. If it was that important, then he needed to get it decoded as soon as possible. "And to answer your question? No. I've a murder to solve."

"Here, and in your condition?" she scoffed. "And I know all about Lord Peter Wimsey, and that he's staying at your house for the time being. He won't be of much help."

Christopher finally folded his arms wincing, with the book now tucked under his arm. "Tell me one thing."

Hilda eventually nodded.

"Ericcson? Is he innocent?"

"You have nothing to worry about Ericcson. Remember, I want that letter." And with that she stood up and walked out of the ward. Marched was more like it.

Christopher shook his head. He never liked dealing with Miss Pierce and MI5. They both knew that she didn't answer his question. Being too methodical, he wasn't about to let this investigation go. It happened with Paige, and he had vowed afterward that it would never happen again.

Unfolding his arms he propped the book back on his leg and opened to the place he had just stopped. This time he couldn't concentrate at all on the words printed before him. _Just what_ _'s in that letter?_

"I need to get out of here," he muttered.

"Mr. Foyle, I'll see what the doctor thinks."

His head shot up, surprised that he actually voiced his thoughts, and that the nurse had heard him.

"I suspect you're eager to be back in your own home instead of the ward." She came over and placed a hand on his forehead checking to see if he was running a temperature.

"That and there are investigations that I need to be working on, and I can't while I'm here." Well, that wasn't really true. If Hugh or Peter brought him his case notes then he'd be able to read through them and hopefully come up with something new, something that he hadn't seen or thought of yet.

"I still need see what the doctor thinks." She patted his arm and checked the next patient before leaving the ward.

Maybe he would be released sooner than he expected. He frowned, thinking once again about Sam. Where would she go? If there was one thing, he didn't want her leaving for Lyminster, at least not until she had his permission. Permission for what? Truth be told, he wanted her in his house and nowhere else, but at the same time he knew he couldn't.

He waited for the nurse's return. When the door opened again, his eyes immediately trained on the women entering. One was pushing a cart. Christopher felt his stomach rumble at the sight of their meal being brought. For the patients that couldn't eat, there was beef tea. Since he was in much better condition, he received a light meal of toast and a bit of butter on it with a glass of water. It wasn't much, but with rationing, there wasn't much else. He was actually looking forward to going fishing and then eating the fruits of his labours from the river.

The nurse eventually returned, "Mr. Foyle?"

"Yes?" he gave the plate back to another nurse.

"The woman who came in with you, does she have anyone she can stay with here in Hastings until her ribs are fully healed?"

 _With me_. But he refused to give the nurse that particular answer. "Miss Stewart works for me. She also has a billet in Hastings."

"What about family?"

 _I hope they don_ _'t send for her father._ "They're in Lyminster. Her uncle was here recently, Reverend Aubrey Stewart, and mentioned that he came instead of her father because her mother is ill at the moment."

The nurse gave him a thoughtful look. "Lyminster is too far to travel in her condition. Do you know of someone in town where she can stay?"

This was a surprise. "So, she will be released at the same time I will?"

"Yes," the nurse nodded while giving him a bit of a smile. "The doctor thought that she might get better rest away from this place."

"It is rather difficult to get any sleep. If I can find a place in Hastings will that be sufficient?"

The nurse's smile widened. "Yes, it should as long as there's someone there to make sure she doesn't overexert herself. And it's the same with you Mr. Foyle."

TBC...


	25. Scene 25

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 25  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 25_

Christopher couldn't help but think of his sergeant as he sat in the wooden wheelchair outside the hospital while waiting for his lift to arrive. The hospital had given him crutches and a walking stick to aide him in maneuvering around his home once he was back. At the moment, those rested on his lap.

Home.

He sighed as he tightened his grip on the wood. It was a good day seeing he was able to leave the hospital alive and in relatively decent condition, even if he still had to deal with a messed up shoulder and broken leg. The stitches in his forehead would be removed soon enough by his doctor.

It was only the day before that he found out that one leg bone had jutted out of his skin. The knowledge of that alone brought unheeded, and unwanted memories from his time in the trenches so many years earlier. He pushed his thoughts to the side and focused on wondering who would drive both him and Sam back to Hastings.

Sam.

He had no idea what he was going to do. Just the thought that she also harbored feelings for him bothered him to no end. Looking back now he could see clearly her growing feelings for him. It was so obvious that he wondered how he was so blind to it earlier. Maybe it was because he was trying to hold back his own emotions.

He frowned when he heard her say something to the nurse with her. She was somewhere nearby, but definitely outside the building. Just like him, he could see she tired easily, and with her specific injuries it was almost impossible for her to get a decent breath.

Eventually a very familiar looking Daimler, with the top up once again, came up the driveway and pulled to a stop in front of the steps. Peter climbed out from behind the driver's seat and came towards him, mounting the stairs. Christopher could see someone else in the car, but he didn't recognize who he or she was. It ended up being a woman who emerged. _Who is she?_

"You're carriage awaits, milord," Peter gave him an amused grin as his arm swept towards the Daimler.

"Who is your companion?" Christopher really wanted to know if she was a nurse or not, and why she was with Peter.

Peter cocked his head to the side, then smiled. "That, old chap, is my wife, Harriet."

Christopher nodded, then braced himself with his one good arm so he could stand. With help from both the nurse and Peter, he was soon on his feet and being helped down the steps to the gravel road. Even that simple movement seemed to wipe him out. As soon as he was situated in the back seat of the car and behind the driver's seat, he lowered his head and squeezed his eyes shut, then leaned his head back against the top of the seat. If it was this exhausting just getting to the car, he wondered how bad it would be when he arrived home.

Hearing a whimper that sounded just like Sam's when she was in the WC at the mortuary, he opened his eyes and looked around. It bothered him greatly just how weak Sam seemed. She almost had to be carried to the car because of her ribs and injured knee.

It took some doing before Sam was finally settled into the car. She bowed her head and tears came out of her eyes that were squeezed shut. For once he felt glad she was seated to his left or he knew he would have reached over to brush one of the tears away.

When she finally opened her eyes, she glanced over to him. "I'm hurting and can't seem to get a decent breath and your exhausted. What a pair we make."

"Be glad we're alive."

"Oh I am." She winced as she tried to take a deeper breath. "I just can't seem to catch my breath."

"It'll get better."

The car dipped down as first Peter and then Harriet climbed into the two front seats. Peter started the car engine and slid the gear into first. "Miss Stewart," he turned to look back at her as he slipped on his driving gloves. "We will be on our way to your billet first."

"Do you know where it is, my Lord?" she furrowed her brow.

"No. You will need to direct me there." He turned and looked at the mirror to adjust it before pulling away from the hospital.

It felt good to be out of the hospital environment, Christopher mused as he looked across the passing landscape. Peter drove at a relatively sedate pace and made sure to not hit any potholes in the road for Sam's benefit. The sound of the engine, and the gentle rocking motion the car made almost made him want to sleep. Yet he forced himself to concentrate on the land that was passing them by.

The hospital wasn't too far out of town, yet far enough that the Germans wouldn't be constantly bombing it. They soon reached the outskirts of Hastings. Even though the engine drowned out what sound was coming from the sea, the salt brine in the air easily announced that you were nearing it.

With Sam's capable directions they soon pulled up to a house not too far from the station. It was her second billet since arriving two years earlier. Her bicycle was over at the station proper, and would most likely remain there until she had the strength to retrieve it.

Harriet turned around to Sam. Her voice seemed very cultured, then again she was part of the high gentry, "Miss Stewart, is your landlady at home?"

Sam looked as if she wanted to shrug, but didn't. "I think so. I don't remember if she said she'd be visiting family or not."

"I see. What about your key?" Harriet climbed out of the front seat and opened the rear passenger door for easier access.

"Um…I think it's at the station." Sam shook her head. Taking a deep breath she winced and rubbed her chest.

"Is there one outside somewhere?"

Sam frowned. "Um…under one of the pots beside the door."

"You stay here." Harriet nodded and walked up to the front door and knocked. When there was no answer, she searched around and found the key and used it to open the door. Several minutes later she came back outside, her head shaking. She came back to the Daimler. "I'm sorry, but that place will not do, especially in your condition. Where is your room?"

Sam closed her eyes and bowed her head. "First room on the right on the first floor."

"Harriet?" Peter cocked his head.

She glanced towards Peter. "Peter, there's no one inside."

They both nodded and Harriet went back to the house. When she came back out she had a bag in hand. Once the place was locked back up and the key returned to its spot, she came back to the Daimler.

"Where am I going to stay?" as soon as the words were out of Sam's mouth her eyes widened when she realized what the two before her had in mind.

"Mr. Foyle, I do hope you don't mind," Peter looked at Foyle through the mirror, "but I should think it'd be better if both of you were near enough for us to keep an eye on you."

Christopher went to protest then stopped. It was only then he realized that he really wasn't in control anymore, neither of the investigation nor of his own home. _Andrew would be very amused at all of this._ "Does Mr. Reid know of this development?"

He could see Peter's amused smile through the mirror. "If he doesn't old chap, he will soon enough." And with that, they were once again on their way, this time into Hastings proper. It didn't take that long before Peter stopped in front of his house and behind another car. _Hugh has to be here._

Christopher was not looking forward to getting out of the car and up the steps, and then there were the stairs inside that led to the first floor and his bedroom. It wasn't the first time he wished he had a single level home, and he knew it certainly wouldn't be the last. What did surprise him was that it didn't take as long as he expected. The Daimler's back door opened, and he was helped to his feet. He used one of the crutches to balance on the pavement when the door opened and Hugh emerged from the house.

By the time he was settled into his favorite chair Christopher felt beyond exhausted. He ignored the movement and voices that came from the kitchen area. The floor creaked under someone's weight and then Hugh's voice asked, "Are you okay, Christopher?"

He cracked an eye open, finding his old friend standing nearby with a concerned look on his face. Just beyond he could see Sam resting on the settee, stretched out with her eyes closed. "I just need some rest. It was rather difficult sleeping in the ward."

"Yes, I know." Hugh glanced over to Sam and then back. "What about her?"

"Um…" Christopher was so tired that he couldn't even remember who Peter's wife was, or even care that it bothered him.

Hugh cocked his head. "Lady Peter?"

"Yes, her," Christopher nodded. "Apparently Sam's landlady isn't home. The doctor at the hospital didn't want her to be alone for now."

Hugh gave him an amused smile. "I'll let the boys at the station know that you're back home from hospital." And with that the uniformed officer left the house.

As soon as the door closed Harriet came in from the kitchen and looked around. "Did Mr. Reid leave?"

"Yes," Christopher sank deeper into the chair and let his head rest against the backrest once again.

"Lady Peter?"

Christopher cracked an eye open again, this time to watch Sam. It really bothered him that she sounded so weak, or maybe it was the exhaustion that was speaking.

Harriet smiled as she turned towards Sam. "You can call me Harriet."

"Harriet, where am I to sleep?"

"Sam, there's more than enough room on the first floor."

Sam's eyes widened and she blushed. Their eyes caught for a moment then she turned to look at the back of the settee. She cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable, or was it embarrassment? "But…."

It took several minutes before Harriet realized what Sam was implying. "Oh, don't worry. It's not what you think. There's a nice bedroom on the second floor. I'm staying there with Peter. You will be sleeping," she glanced to Christopher who nodded, "in Andrew's room."

Sam turned back, surprise written on her face, "There's another floor? I thought it was just the attic."

"Yes, Sam. There is another floor." Christopher smiled as she turned his attention towards him. Her eyes lowered and he let his wander towards Harriet as the woman looked around the room. She nodded as she reached for one of the books near the other chair. He could tell it wasn't one of his. _That must be Sam_ _'s._

"Here, Sam." Harriet moved the few steps towards the settee, "Why don't you read one of my books?" She gave it to Sam.

"You?" Sam did a double take as she looked at the book, then to Harriet, then back to the book. "This is…I mean y-you wrote this?"

Harriet smiled. "Yes. At the time I was working on it, I was over in Seahampton."

"You're Harriet Vane?" Same looked at her in awe.

"Yes, I am."

TBC...


	26. Scene 26

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 26  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 26_

It was only but mutual agreement, that Peter and Harriet decided to work on the letter the following day. It would be best since Foyle needed to know what was in it, yet everyone was exhausted from the short trip from the hospital back to the house on Steep Street.

With breakfast cleared away and the kitchen tidied up they finally gathered around the dinner table, now strewn with case file information. Peter pulled out his monocle and put it in place then studied the letter with great interests. "I remember the last time we did this, the police had made a photograph of the letter." He handed the paper over to Harriet and then drummed his fingers on the table.

Foyle frowned at the two intruders as he began to consider them. Sam had been following the woman around with her eyes in awe since she realized who she was. He had met too many people in his years as a detective to fall for something like that. It was difficult for him to keep a positive viewpoint on people and life in general when he'd seen the worst of them for so many years.

His skin began to crawl once again under the cast. Maybe he could find a twig to somehow stop the itch.

Sam hobbled over to the table and sat down with a wince.

"Sam," Foyle gave her a long look. "You need to go back into the lounge and lay down."

"But I want to see the letter. If I don't move, then I should be okay." She gave him a pleading look.

Christopher closed his eyes. He always had a difficult time telling her no when she gave him that look.

Apparently thinking she was free to stay, she reached and then looked over the letter. "I'm sorry," Sam shook her head and handed the letter to him, "but it looks like gibberish to me."

Even with Peter's short stature he seemed to look down his nose at Sam. "Of course it would, my girl."

Foyle bit the inside of his lip to stop the retort that was already forming. Sighing, he handed the letter back to Peter. The aristocrat seemed to be oblivious to everything around him. "This almost looks like the coded letters I remember you preparing and then sending out during the war."

Peter nodded. "It does, doesn't it?" The aristocrat rested his chin on his hand as he looked at the letter again.

"And you're sure you can decode it."

Peter looked up at Christopher, then smiled. "I believe I can with Harriet's help here." The aristocrat shot a side long glance and then smiled to the woman that sat beside him.

Harriet shook her head. "Oh come now Peter. I didn't help that much."

"Only that you managed to figure out the name of the city at the top of the page which was the key to the whole thing."

Harriet blushed at Peter's words. She pointed to the letter with an open hand. "It was nothing. Anyone would have realized that the city was Warsaw because the ending is the same as the beginning, except the letters are reversed."

Peter shook his head. "Not everyone, Domina. I married you because you have a brain." He looked at the letter before finally straightened and then stood up. "Christopher, do you have any clean pieces of paper?"

Foyle looked down to his fingers for a moment. "Yes, in the bureau."

The aristocrat smiled then wound his way around the table and then across the lounge to the desk at the far end. Finding what he was looking for, he came back to the table and placed the sheets down. He pulled out a pencil and created a grid with four squares.

Harriet reached over and picked up the letter and scanned through it once again. "You know, Peter," she leaned over towards him and pointed near the bottom of the letter, and then to the top. "I believe at the top and the bottom are personal names."

Peter took the letter and scanned through it to the bottom. "I wouldn't be surprised."

"How many letters?" Even though Foyle didn't want to admit it, he was now very curious and tried to lean forward, wanting to look at the letter once again.

"It could be seven or eight. If the one who crafted it is, or was smart, then he added in extra letters to confuse the one trying to break the code." Peter looked up and gave him an amused smile.

Starting with the idea that it was a name at the bottom, both Peter and Harriet had the key worked out in less than an hour. Now came the laborious process of decoding the letter itself.

 _William,_

 _If you are reading this then I am dead. I fear what Les will do if he finds out that I have been spying on him. I don't know how he has remained this deep for this long without slipping. From my discreet investigations I have found out that his parents were also spies during the Great War. I fear for his wife and children, for them seem to have no knowledge of him working for Hitler, or maybe it is simple greed. I believe the money he used to purchase several expensive items for me was blood money from German Jews. It makes me sick wearing them, but I have to. I still have not found out who he is working for. Pray for my safety and the safety of all of us, for I fear what Leslie is capable of doing if he feels he is cornered._

 _Margaret_

"Who is Les?" Sam shook her head.

"I suspect the man Margaret is referencing is Mr. Leslie Hamilton. Charles telephoned while you were in hospital about how his wife was found dead."

Foyle's head shot up, and his eyes narrowed. So it was her. "Dead?"

"Yes, and I believe this," Peter indicated the letter, "changes everything." The aristocrat mused as he once again drummed his fingers on the table.

"With what you've just told me, I'm not all that surprised." Foyle frowned as he shook his head.

Peter sat back, eyebrows raised. "Why's that?"

Foyle indicated the files with a wave of his hand. "There's still no evidence showing that he killed Miss Woollenhouse. Yet…Never mind."

"Never mind what?"

Foyle glanced towards Sam and then Harriet before finally letting his eyes settle back on Peter. "Like I mentioned, all the clues seem to point towards Hamilton." He let his finger draw the number eight on the flat surface. "But with Miss Woollenhouse's murder, there's no witnesses pointing their fingers towards Hamilton being the guilty party. I cannot have him arrested at this point."

Peter reached up and removed his monocle. "Who is this William?"

Foyle let his eyes go across the table to the folders. He winced as he tried to reach for them first with his left, and then with his right hand.

Looking as if to take pity on him, Peter reached for the stack and started going through them. "Which one are you looking for?"

"The one for Ericcson."

Finding the folder, Peter slid it across the table so Foyle could reach it. "Through Detective Bletsoe's investigation he found out that Ericcson was from the Shetland Islands, yet from what I remember, he didn't have a Scottish accent."

"So you were there for the interview?"

Foyle frowned at Peter and narrowed his eyes. "I let Bletsoe conduct the interview."

Peter sat back and raised his hands in supplication. "Okay."

"One of the constables saw him loitering around Miss Woollenhouse's home when we were conducting a search of the place. He ran when he saw us." Foyle shrugged.

"I see."

Sam cleared her throat which made everyone look in her direction. She blushed and looked down. "I was thinking that," she looked back up, "that he's the one the letter is addressed too."

Everyone looked to Sam as she blushed again.

Foyle gave her an upside down smile and nodded. "He could be." He reached up and rubbed his temple, for a low grade headache was beginning to form.

"Why's that?"

"Because MI5 came in and took him away. And then Miss Pierce came the day before I was released from hospital and all but demanded the letter." Foyle settled back in his chair and gave Peter his own amused look. "She knows that you're here and that you're trying to decode the letter." He cast his eyes down to the papers that were now strewn across the table.

Peter smiled in turn. "Well, if she came by now, she'd be sorely disappointed in that we've succeeded."

"Have I seen her before?"

Foyle glanced over to Sam. "Maybe, I'm not sure."

Sam's eyes brightened and she straightened, then winced. "Wait," she rubbed her chest gently, "she's older, right?"

"Yes."

Sam nodded eagerly. "I remember her now. I saw her when we went up to…," she hesitated at Foyle's look, "when we went up to talk to Uncle Aubrey, and I dropped you off at that place."

"What place?" Harriet was now very interested.

Foyle shook his head. "It's something that I cannot discuss here."

"We can't arrest him?"

Christopher looked to the side. "No Sam. There's no hard evidence. It's all circumstantial at this point." He shook his head. Truth be told, he wasn't that sure that Hamilton was the one that killed her.

Peter shook his head. "If he's not guilty, I feel dreadfully sorry for him because his wife is also dead."

"Do you think she might have found out that he was having an affair?"

Peter rested his chin on his hand once again. "Could be."

TBC...


	27. Scene 27

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 27  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 27_

There seemed next to nothing to do for the rest of the day and into the next. Peter wanted Parker to come down to Hastings and have a full on discussion about the case, while Foyle wasn't all that thrilled about it. The problem was that there still wasn't any real evidence linking Hamilton to the Woollenhouse murder.

Parker couldn't just drop everything and come down, he mentioned he was too busy with something he was working on. It was only the next day when he was able to take the time to stay in Hastings for at least a good portion of the day.

With the skies once again blue, Christopher sat in a chair in his back garden with a cup of hot tea in hand. He looked at the ill taken care of foliage before him and the Anderson stuck in the middle of it. After he lost Rosalind it was Andrew who had taken to cutting the grass, but ever since he went to Oxford and then into the RAF, the plants had taken over the whole area. Being alone he just never had the wherewithal to expend the energy. Sometimes he wondered if it was because the garden was her favorite place to be, and if he did anything with it, it would bring back too many painful memories.

The door to the kitchen was open, and he could hear Harriet messing around, making something from what she picked up at the market. She had pooled their ration cards together so they could have at least a few decent meals. Plus, his cast made it difficult for him to stand for any length of time. Flyfishing required him to stand either on the bank or in the river itself. Sam asked Harriet some question, he was too far for him to be able to catch her words, and Harriet's answer. He smiled then took another sip of the tea.

"Christopher," Peter took a step out the door. "Charles is here."

Christopher looked up to one of the crutches that was propped against the side of the house then to the aristocrat. He needed those to move around, but they were out of reach.

"Here, let me help you."

Foyle looked back to see Peter standing nearby with his hand extended. Transferring the tea cup to his left hand he grasped the waiting one and let the blond pull him to his feet. It turned out that Peter was stronger than he expected, and with the aristocrat he was able to hobble into the kitchen, where he dropped the tea cup off, and into the room where the dining table was located. Detective Parker was already there at the table. The dark hair man looked up when they emerged then stood and came around to help and then sit down.

Christopher had to admit, it was nice being helped without being asked.

"There's been an interesting development in your case, sir," Parker started.

"Oh?"

Parker gave him a bit of a smile. "The inquest was held, and the coroner has labeled Mrs. Hamilton's death a homicide. Strangled." He paused, "If I'm correct, isn't that how Miss Woollenhouse met her untimely demise?"

"Correct."

"Well, a man stopped by yesterday morning, shortly before Peter called." Parker looked towards Peter, then back to Foyle. "It turns out that Mr. Hamilton wasn't as careful as he thought he was. There were several men in his household that saw him arguing with Mrs. Hamilton and then strangle her. I asked Bunter if he could go back over to Mr. Hamilton's residence to see what more information he could find out."

Foyle's look went from thoughtful to one of distaste. "Well, if we cannot arrest him for the Woollenhouse murder, we can for killing his wife. I can never see why a…." He tilted his head to the side and closed his eyes.

Peter leaned forward. "What is it?"

"Damn," Foyle muttered and balled his fist and hit the table.

"Did you remember something, sir?"

Foyle leaned back in his chair and frowned. "Hamilton ran us off the road. And Miss Pierce all but considered the whole thing as collateral damage."

Parker furrowed his brow. "Who is Miss Pierce?"

Foyle leaned forward and drummed his fingers on the table. "She's with MI5. I wouldn't be all that surprised if she was the one that sent her men down to Bexhill to take Ericcson. Which means, he and Miss Woollenhouse probably work, or worked for her."

"Do you think she will take Hamilton away?"

Foyle shook his head. "I don't know. I do know that she knows about the letter, but I'm not sure if she knows what's the contents are."

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "What letter?"

Foyle sighed and shook his head. "The letter we translated yesterday. Miss Woollenhouse left it in the mattress in her home in Bexhill."

Peter rolled his eyes. "You know, I should know better."

"Yes, you should."

Foyle glanced towards Parker who watched the whole exchange with wide eyes. "Mr. Parker, I'm tired and sore, which makes me very short on patience."

Someone at the front door knocked.

"And look, I wouldn't be surprised if that's Miss Pierce," Foyle muttered.

Parker gave them both a look, then stood up to answer the door. When he came back, he was shaking his head.

"Christopher," Aubrey smiled and brushed past the detective. "It's good to see you out of hospital." In one hand he held a bottle of wine.

"Hullo," Peter stood up and offered his hand. "I'm Peter Wimsey."

Aubrey transferred the bottle to his left hand so he could take the proffered one that was offered. "Aubrey Stewart. I've heard about you Lord Peter. It's a pleasant surprise meeting you here."

"You're related to Miss Stewart?"

"Yes, my niece, you know." He straightened, "Oh, and here. A welcoming home gift of sorts." He handed the bottle to Christopher.

"Thank you, Aubrey." Christopher accepted the wine somewhat graciously.

"How is my favorite niece?"

Christopher shook his head and waved him towards the kitchen.

"Thank you." And the clergyman disappeared through the kitchen door.

"So, what do we have here?" Peter reached for the bottle.

"It's his homemade wine." Foyle looked at it in distaste. He looked to the kitchen door, hoping to see if Aubrey was fully engaged with both Harriet and Sam before continuing, "And the best I can say about it is that it's green."

Peter placed the bottle down and pushed it back towards Christopher. "He did give it to you, old chap."

TBC...


	28. Scene 28

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 28  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 28_

It was time, Charles knew it. What he really wanted was for Foyle to be the one doing the questioning, and eventual arrest. But the older and higher ranked detective couldn't with his injuries. Peter and Harriet had decided on staying down in Hastings for a bit longer, which means Mary would remain up at Talboys until she could return to London. At least nothing was stopping him from coming up on his next free day to visit her and the children.

Parker drummed his fingers on his desk and sighed. He had the evidence, yet he was hesitant at the same time. Maybe it was because of Foyle not being here.

Not seeing anything else to hinder him, he rose to his feet and left his office to the cars waiting in the car park. Maybe it was MI5 hovering around that was stopping him, although he had yet to see anyone. It wouldn't really surprise him if the governmental agency was watching his every move. Just as he reached the door leading to the outside he turned back around. He stopped the first constable he came across and requested that he and at least one other go and collect Hamilton to bring him in for questioning. Giving them the two addresses, hoping he'd be at least one, he walked back to his office, mind buzzing with questions he thought he needed to ask the man.

Some time later he received word that Hamilton was in one of the interview rooms waiting for his arrival. Normally, he'd just have the man arrested and be done with it, but this time was different. He suspected that Foyle would want to know Hamilton's reasons for actually killing his wife, and possibly Miss Woollenhouse also. He only hoped that Hamilton would talk, but in all likely hood he wouldn't. If that happened, at least he could report back at least something to the higher ranked detective. Then there was the detective up in Norfolk. Common courtesy required him to pass word along to what was left of the Hamilton family about what happened to Mrs. Hamilton. "Damn shame," he muttered as he shook his head. Their children lost both parents by what seemed like a senseless act of murder.

He turned the corner and went through another set of doors. The hall that spread out before him had sets of doors spaced together at equal intervals. Next to the two on his right was a constable standing guard.

"Mr. Parker," the uniformed officer nodded and reached out for the door handle.

"Is Mr. Hamilton present?"

"Yes, sir. We made sure he didn't have any weapons on him."

"Thank you," Charles nodded then indicated the door.

With a pull, the officer opened the heavy metal door. In the room beyond was a table and a couple of chairs. On one wall was a window where he could see another constable sitting guard. Hamilton was on the far side, and pacing the room. "Mr. Hamilton, have a seat." Parker indicated one of the chairs.

The man's eyes shifted around the room as if he were a caged animal. In a way he was, Parker mused. When he finally sat down, Parker took the other chair.

Leaning forward Charles interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table. "Do you know why I had you brought in?"

The caged animal look disappeared, revealing one of arrogance. "Yes," he raised an eyebrow, "but there's nothing you can charge me with."

"Maybe, then again maybe not."

Hamilton folded his arms. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well," Charles paused, "There were several men who witnessed your actions."

Hamilton snorted. "If I killed Miss Woollenhouse there was no one there to witness it. It was so easy," he gave Charles a feral smile.

Charles narrowed his eyes. "So you admit to murdering Miss Woollenhouse?"

The sentence brought Hamilton up short. "I did not say that." He pointed a finger towards Charles, "Don't put words in my mouth."

Charles gave him an ironic smile, "I _never_ stated why you were brought here. You did that all by yourself." He drew his fingers across the wood table.

Hamilton frowned, then closed his eyes, realizing what he just did. "There's still no evidence."

"You're correct about that, there is no evidence with Miss Woollenhouse's murder, but," Charles leaned back in his chair and interlaced his fingers again, "there is evidence for something else."

Leslie gave him a wary look. Charles knew the man was now on the defensive, he only hoped that he wouldn't pick his words carefully. Yet, it did sadden him to an extent that the man before him felt no remorse for murdering his wife.

"Who?"

"Your wife."

Hamilton snorted. "There's no witnesses."

Charles shook his head. "That's where I beg to differ. There were several servants-"

Hamilton moved his hand in a dismissive motion. "Servants are nothing."

Charles leaned forward again. "Servants are subject to the King just like everyone else is. And since they witnessed your argument and then killing of Mrs. Hamilton…." He paused, "What made you so angry that you had to kill her?"

Hamilton let his shoulders drop. He looked down and closed his eyes. "Because she found out."

"What did she find out? Was it Miss Woollenhouse, or something more sinister?" He didn't want to state outright about the spying, but at the same time he wanted Hamilton to know that he knew all about it.

With his last words Hamilton's head shot up and his eyes were wide. "Both." He hesitated, "It looks like you caught me."

"Were you wanting to be found out, Leslie?"

"I'm not sure. I've lived this way all my life. At least it's now over with."

Charles nodded and stood to move towards the door. "One last thing. Detective Foyle caught a glimpse of you just as you were forcing the car he was in off the road. That means you will also be charged with attempted murder of a police officer."

And with that he left the interrogation room. It was sad that an entire family was destroyed by the actions of one man. Charles only hoped there would be other family members that would be able to raise his children. He didn't want them lost in the system, especially since they were at war.

When Parker made it back to his office he sat down in his chair and sighed. He always felt exhausted and relieved at this point in an investigation. After several minutes he picked up the telephone and called down to Hastings. "Sir, it's finished. Yes, he did." And with that he ended the call.

Straightening, he scooted up to the desk and started organizing the paperwork that would be filed by the end of the day. "One more down," he muttered.

When the door opened he raised his hand to protest about how his visitor should have knocked. Before him an older woman stood, smartly dressed with a walking stick. He folded his hands on the desk, mostly to cover the information on the Hamilton case. "And you are?"

She took a step forward. "You may call me Miss Pierce."

Only one group of men would give possible fictitious names, and that was MI5. "The government?" Charles asked.

"Maybe. I'm here for Mr. Hamilton."

Charles shook his head. "I'm sorry, but he's in gaol for murder."

Pierce raised an eyebrow. "Because of Miss Woollenhouse?"

"No. He killed his wife and there are witnesses to the fact."

"We will be taking him anyway."

Charles sat back in shock. "You can't just take him."

"I can and I will." She leaned heavily on her cane. "He's a spy Mr. Parker, and one that we've been after for a very long time. I will say you did our work for us in finding and arresting him, which we are very grateful."

"And you show that by taking him away?"

Pierce gave him a smile and turned and walked out of the office.

"Damn."

TBC...


	29. Scene 29

_**The Pale Rider**_

Part: 29  
Rating: T  
Summary: What do you do when a dead body washes up on the beach?  
Beta: Captn Becky, Harper64  
Notes: Canon up to May 1942. Anything else are lovely imaginations from the author's warped mind.  
Disclaimer: All known characters are the creation of Anthony Horowitz and Dorothy Sayers. I make no money off this.

 _Scene 29_

Even though the case was solved, Peter and Harriet had remained in Hastings for several days more days. Foyle decided that they were here because of his and Sam's slow recovery. He did have to admit that with the two around it made things much easier to deal with. No telling what would have happened if they had decided to head back up to Herefordshire.

With his copy of _Brighton Rock_ resting in his lap, Christopher looked towards the settee, while in his chair with his leg propped up. He let a fond smile emerge as he watched Sam. With her wrapped up chest, she was now resting on her back with pillows propping her up in a semi-reclined position. Several days earlier, she had almost overdone it and this was the first time she had been able to make it down into the lounge. Maybe she should have stayed at the hospital until her ribs were more healed, but that was water under the bridge and there was nothing he could really do about it. It had been nice, though to have her at least nearby.

Christopher looked in the direction of where she had her attention. It was Harriet that captured her imagination, and he wasn't all that surprised. She had read the older woman's books and was now getting to know her. Harriet, at the moment sat in Andrew's chair with pencil and paper working on something. From his perspective it didn't look like she was making very much headway. Every once in a while, she'd shake her head and cross out the words she recently wrote then start over again.

Shifting, Sam gasped and wrapped an arm around her chest. The sound both made Harriet and Christopher look in her direction. Placing the notepad and pencil down, Harriet rose to her feet and went over to Sam. "Are you okay?"

"Miserable." Sam glanced towards Christopher who shook his head.

"It's partly my fault." Harriet placed a hand on Sam's forehead. "I should have realized I was letting you do too much, and now you're paying the consequences for my foolish actions."

"But I wanted to see what you were doing."

Harriet opened her mouth to answer when someone knocked at the front door.

Peter appeared from upstairs and stuck his head through the arch that separated the entry hall from the lounge. "I'll just get that."

A few minutes later Christopher heard the door open and Peter's surprised, "Charles? What brings you down to Hastings once again?"

There was a muffled answer and the two appeared into the lounge. The detective had a frown on his face, which made Foyle sit up and take notice. The younger detective held his hat in his hand and was fiddling with it. "What is it?" Foyle asked.

Charles expression went from uncertain to grim. "I'm sorry, sir. There was nothing I could do about it."

Foyle closed his eyes and let his head rest against the back of his chair. He should have known this would happen, especially since Miss Pierce had made her own surprise appearance the previous day. At least it was satisfying to see her angry look at how they had already cracked the coded letter.

" _You're a tad late, Miss Pierce,"_ and Peter, smiling, handed over the letter.

Realizing things were way different than what she expected, she snatched the letter and stormed out of the house.

Foyle raised his head up, then massaged his forehead with his fingers. "So they took him?"

Charles let out a sigh. "Yes." He hesitated, "The thing is, he never felt remorse, and it was his children that paid the consequences for his actions. They have no parents now. They're orphans."

Moving into the dining area, Charles took one of the chairs and brought it into the lounge for him to use.

When he sat down Foyle continued, "Did he admit to the murder?"

With that the younger detective let a smile play across his face. "In so many words. I couldn't pin the Woollenhouse murder on him, but as I mentioned earlier, there were servants who witnessed the second one."

Foyle pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. "Need to tell Mr. Bletsoe over in Bexhill." At Charles' confused look he continued, "That's where Miss Woollenhouse had her address. Never did find out if she truly lived in that house." There were a few other things he wasn't able to finish, which bothered him greatly.

"But at least it's finished."

"Not the way I intended it."

A short time later Charles along with the Wimseys left the house. In the ensuing silence Christopher wondered just how well they knew each other. Information on that subject was neither asked nor given.

With them now alone in the lounge his eyes strayed over to Sam once again. From the years working with her, he could read her moods easily, or so he had thought. Right now he could tell something was bothering her. She was fiddling with the edge of the blanket with her good hand.

He knew they needed to talk about what was now between them. What was surprising was how nervous he felt. The thing is, he knew he had to be the one to start the conversation. Reaching for his walking stick, he used it to push himself to his feet and hobbled over to the settee. "Sam."

She looked up, eyes wide, apparently startled that he was standing close to her. "S-sir?"

"Can you sit up?"

Sam looked down, then nodded. "I think so." With an arm wrapped around her chest, she winced as she slowly managed to change from her reclining position to sitting. Now she was in the middle, which actually helped him.

Hobbling a few more steps, Christopher turned and sat down, trying not to jostle her too much. "Sorry," he mumbled hearing her sharp gasp.

Sam pressed her lips together tight. "It's okay. You've been a brick about everything."

He turned to look at her then down to the floor. "Sam," he began. "You said something while we were still in hospital. Do you remember?"

Her eyes widened again as he looked back to her. "It was a mistake. I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again."

For the past hour Christopher mulled over what he needed to tell her. It wasn't his intention to hurt her, but he just couldn't see anyway out. "Sam," he paused, "ever since you walked into my office, you've been under my care. I've always kept your best interest at heart. Yet, I've come to realize that I care for you more than I should."

With eyes wide as saucers, Sam's mouth opened then closed. "Are, are you sure?"

He shook his head. "Yes, but at the same time I wish there was something I could do about it."

Realization mixed with awe spread across her face. "This is why you never tried to make me change my mind when I accidentally blurted it out."

Christopher nodded, feeling more miserable than ever. "I'm sorry. I wish I could, but my position of authority over you forbids me to do otherwise."

Sam picked at the blanket once again. "It's not fair. I wish we could be stepping out."

"But we can't. Being your boss, I don't…."

Sam leaned against his arm then turned and placed a finger to his lips to silence any possible protest. "I believe it can be done…Christopher."

 _finis_


End file.
